The Visitors did not return.
We were all rather pathetic on Sunday. As the regulars entered the sanctuary, they were clearly crestfallen at the sight of the two empty pews. And each time the church door opened, almost everyone turned to see who was entering. The thoughts were nearly audible - maybe the Visitors came a little late!
Nope.
But...they called on Wednesday. Out of town guests kept them away, and a vacation would prevent attendance next week, but they are looking forward to joining us again the week after that.
Ah. That feels good!
Friday, October 21, 2011
Friday, October 14, 2011
Back Door Optimist
This is my new term. It describes someone who acts and talks like a pessimist, when all along the real determination is optimism.
I am a back door optimist.
When something comes up (an opportunity, a problem), I immediately assume the worst will happen. And why do I do that? Because the worst WON'T happen, and then I'll be a step or two further toward happy than I would have been if I had optimistically expected the best but didn't get it.
The only hitch to this is when the worst does happen. Because I wasn't, actually, expecting that.
You might say I'm a "glass is 1/8 full" kind of gal.
I am a back door optimist.
When something comes up (an opportunity, a problem), I immediately assume the worst will happen. And why do I do that? Because the worst WON'T happen, and then I'll be a step or two further toward happy than I would have been if I had optimistically expected the best but didn't get it.
The only hitch to this is when the worst does happen. Because I wasn't, actually, expecting that.
You might say I'm a "glass is 1/8 full" kind of gal.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
There Is Only One Leonardo da Vinci...
...and you're not him.
I said this to my son today. See, he's very smart. Unusually smart, if I do say so myself. But he's lazy as the day is long. He'd rather sketch a few ideas, jot some notes, and wait four or five hundred years for someone else to come along and actually produce anything worthwhile.
Unfortunately, brilliant inventors who do nothing are probably a dime a dozen. I often wonder how on earth Leonardo actually became famous. Surely it was because of his art. But my son is not artistic. And there aren't many rich aristocrats looking for starving artists to sponsor these days, anyway.
Nope. He's just going to have to learn to work, like the rest of us.
Poor guy.
I said this to my son today. See, he's very smart. Unusually smart, if I do say so myself. But he's lazy as the day is long. He'd rather sketch a few ideas, jot some notes, and wait four or five hundred years for someone else to come along and actually produce anything worthwhile.
Unfortunately, brilliant inventors who do nothing are probably a dime a dozen. I often wonder how on earth Leonardo actually became famous. Surely it was because of his art. But my son is not artistic. And there aren't many rich aristocrats looking for starving artists to sponsor these days, anyway.
Nope. He's just going to have to learn to work, like the rest of us.
Poor guy.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The Visitors That Came Back
Today was a banner day at church.
You see, we had visitors last week.
Our church is small - very, very small - so visitors are quite noticeable. Our church is very, very friendly, so visitors are much welcomed. Our church is also a very, very short distance from a major tourist attraction, though. And, besides all that, we're Pentecostal.
Now, we're not Holy Rollin' Pentecostal, by any stretch of the imagination. Our worship is lively but not jumpin'. Some of us (most of us) raise our hands now and again as an expression of worship. One or two dance sometimes, gingerly and a bit self-consciously. After each song we generally have some light applause and a few quiet hallelujahs. In the murmur, if you listen carefully, you can hear one or two gently praying in a special language only the Holy Spirit understands.
Last week, two whole families came to visit. Two. Whole. Families. That's two pews - whole pews! - filled. Although our church seats over 200, our regular Sunday attendance is somewhere around 45. Our service was unusually long last week - an hour longer than usual. We had a visiting missionary from India, you see, and we freely give our pulpit to those who give their lives to share the gospel and minister to others in need. After the service, the two families stayed for a bit, greeting people and talking among themselves.
Then they left.
And the waiting began.
It isn't usual for visitors to return. Generally, they really are just visiting and are from out of town. Or our Pentecostalism turns them off. Sometimes our service is too long (usually an hour and a half). Or our two-member worship team just doesn't do it for them. Or any of a number of reasons (pews too hard, nursery too small, not enough families, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera).
It is nerve-wracking to be a tiny, close-knit church and have two whole families visit. You can't help but hope to see them again. I suspect that, last Sunday, there was a lot of talk over dinner at various members' homes about the Visitors and the likelihood of their return. Last week's Visitors, especially. Turns out they were local. And they stayed after service to talk with us - a good sign. We imagine the Visitors' teens in our youth group. Perhaps the Visitors will even come to Bible Study. Maybe one or two of the Visitors plays an instrument! Why, we could double our worship team!
Those two pews looked really good all filled up like that. And the people who normally sat there didn't bat an eye about their usual seats being taken - after all, these were Visitors. And the Visitors were nice people. And they had kids. They held a sort of promise that maybe our church won't always be so very, very small.
At our house, we expressed some hope, but kept things pretty quiet. No one wants to get all excited over visitors, only to be disappointed yet again. It's probably toughest on the pastor and his family when visitors come who could potentially stay.
It was a long, wait-ful week.
And this week, they came back. (!!!)
And, if possible, we'll be even more nerve-wracked come Saturday night of this week, wondering if we'll see them again.
You see, we had visitors last week.
Our church is small - very, very small - so visitors are quite noticeable. Our church is very, very friendly, so visitors are much welcomed. Our church is also a very, very short distance from a major tourist attraction, though. And, besides all that, we're Pentecostal.
Now, we're not Holy Rollin' Pentecostal, by any stretch of the imagination. Our worship is lively but not jumpin'. Some of us (most of us) raise our hands now and again as an expression of worship. One or two dance sometimes, gingerly and a bit self-consciously. After each song we generally have some light applause and a few quiet hallelujahs. In the murmur, if you listen carefully, you can hear one or two gently praying in a special language only the Holy Spirit understands.
Last week, two whole families came to visit. Two. Whole. Families. That's two pews - whole pews! - filled. Although our church seats over 200, our regular Sunday attendance is somewhere around 45. Our service was unusually long last week - an hour longer than usual. We had a visiting missionary from India, you see, and we freely give our pulpit to those who give their lives to share the gospel and minister to others in need. After the service, the two families stayed for a bit, greeting people and talking among themselves.
Then they left.
And the waiting began.
It isn't usual for visitors to return. Generally, they really are just visiting and are from out of town. Or our Pentecostalism turns them off. Sometimes our service is too long (usually an hour and a half). Or our two-member worship team just doesn't do it for them. Or any of a number of reasons (pews too hard, nursery too small, not enough families, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera).
It is nerve-wracking to be a tiny, close-knit church and have two whole families visit. You can't help but hope to see them again. I suspect that, last Sunday, there was a lot of talk over dinner at various members' homes about the Visitors and the likelihood of their return. Last week's Visitors, especially. Turns out they were local. And they stayed after service to talk with us - a good sign. We imagine the Visitors' teens in our youth group. Perhaps the Visitors will even come to Bible Study. Maybe one or two of the Visitors plays an instrument! Why, we could double our worship team!
Those two pews looked really good all filled up like that. And the people who normally sat there didn't bat an eye about their usual seats being taken - after all, these were Visitors. And the Visitors were nice people. And they had kids. They held a sort of promise that maybe our church won't always be so very, very small.
At our house, we expressed some hope, but kept things pretty quiet. No one wants to get all excited over visitors, only to be disappointed yet again. It's probably toughest on the pastor and his family when visitors come who could potentially stay.
It was a long, wait-ful week.
And this week, they came back. (!!!)
And, if possible, we'll be even more nerve-wracked come Saturday night of this week, wondering if we'll see them again.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Summer Travels
I've recently returned from Jackson, Mississippi, where I lived for a year. Only it was actually only four days. A good book will do that to you.
I read a lot. In fact, I've curbed my reading over the last few years because once I begin a book, nothing much else gets done. I'm the kind of reader who can't let go of a story, no matter how poorly written or how ridiculous the story line. Because of this, I've experienced a lot of great literature, and a lot of baloney books, too. Last week I made a wild swing on the whiplash express between the two.
Now that my toddler is in a big-girl bed but is not the kind of person you'd want wandering free in the night, I've loaded several reading apps into my iPod Touch. I sit at the foot of her bed and read as she falls asleep. Because of my skinflint nature, I only read freebies, so I picked up a few free offerings from CBD's new ebook list and downloaded a title or two from the local library.
One of the first titles I read was Reinventing Leona, by Lynne Gentry. I liked the concept behind the story line: a pastor's wife, living in the church-owned parsonage, is abruptly widowed. Always dependent on her husband's strong personality and comfortable in her role as his helper, she now must become her own person and make her own life. This plot rang a bell with me, since I am the wife of a pastor and we live in the parsonage. As I read, I related more with the author of the book than with the story, however. In my mental fiction, Ms. Gentry has enjoyed reading since she was a small child. She probably won school awards for her writing. Maybe she has a blog and gets a lot of compliments on her imagery and writing style. She's toyed with an idea: she dreams of writing a book (don't we all?). Armed with a unique and interesting story line and the good wishes and encouragement of her friends, she begins to write. It goes in spurts. Sometimes the writing just flows; at other times, she agonizes over each phrase. She reads and rereads until her own words make her crazy. Finally she turns portions over to her friends and asks them for brutal honesty. They like it! She's affirmed! After sending her idea to a publisher, they ask for the manuscript, the deal is sealed, she works and sweats and strains, and one day she holds a book - HER book - in her hands!
Bad news: My story is better than hers. Her writing never quite invites you in. The plot is overly segmented and often difficult to follow. You never actually experience Leona reinvented, but only rehashed. Scriptures are placed carefully and predictably. But the worst part - the part that made me groan and roll my eyes, even though I empathized with Ms. Gentry - was the imagery. The imagery, in fact, was what clued me into my likeness with her. At points, her story moved along smoothly enough, but then I'd hit rocky pavement littered by sharp descriptions of every type and of every thing. My mind stumbled and stalled as I tried to follow the faint trail of her plot through the clutter. Some of her images bordered on the ridiculous (sorry, Ms. Gentry, if you ever read this, but it's true - please keep reading), like when she described the main character entering her overbearing mother's hospital room "like the Ty-D-Bol man." The fits and starts are where my mental self-critic inserted itself. "Just why," it asked bluntly, "do you think you could do a better job? Your words are much like hers. You rarely think of a unique phrase or untried description. If you weren't reading this right now, you'd never even see it."
It wasn't a horrible book, but it wasn't one I'd recommend. It had a unique story line and interesting characters. And her descriptions were vivid, though heavy-handed. I ended the book without the sad regret you feel when you've become a part of the literature. But I learned a lot from that book about great literature, and talent, and running with your dream. I hope Ms. Gentry writes again, and I hope she finds her way to clarity and definition. I hope her friends and editors do more than encourage. And I hope that I can make as much of my talent (when I find one!) as she has. The plot line sold me on the book because of my similarity to the main character; my take-away was my similarity with the author.
The ebook I read after that was borrowed from the library. The Help, by Kathryn Stockett, doesn't require my review. I hope I get to visit Jackson, Mississippi (or New York, or Chicago...) with her again soon.
I read a lot. In fact, I've curbed my reading over the last few years because once I begin a book, nothing much else gets done. I'm the kind of reader who can't let go of a story, no matter how poorly written or how ridiculous the story line. Because of this, I've experienced a lot of great literature, and a lot of baloney books, too. Last week I made a wild swing on the whiplash express between the two.
Now that my toddler is in a big-girl bed but is not the kind of person you'd want wandering free in the night, I've loaded several reading apps into my iPod Touch. I sit at the foot of her bed and read as she falls asleep. Because of my skinflint nature, I only read freebies, so I picked up a few free offerings from CBD's new ebook list and downloaded a title or two from the local library.
One of the first titles I read was Reinventing Leona, by Lynne Gentry. I liked the concept behind the story line: a pastor's wife, living in the church-owned parsonage, is abruptly widowed. Always dependent on her husband's strong personality and comfortable in her role as his helper, she now must become her own person and make her own life. This plot rang a bell with me, since I am the wife of a pastor and we live in the parsonage. As I read, I related more with the author of the book than with the story, however. In my mental fiction, Ms. Gentry has enjoyed reading since she was a small child. She probably won school awards for her writing. Maybe she has a blog and gets a lot of compliments on her imagery and writing style. She's toyed with an idea: she dreams of writing a book (don't we all?). Armed with a unique and interesting story line and the good wishes and encouragement of her friends, she begins to write. It goes in spurts. Sometimes the writing just flows; at other times, she agonizes over each phrase. She reads and rereads until her own words make her crazy. Finally she turns portions over to her friends and asks them for brutal honesty. They like it! She's affirmed! After sending her idea to a publisher, they ask for the manuscript, the deal is sealed, she works and sweats and strains, and one day she holds a book - HER book - in her hands!
Bad news: My story is better than hers. Her writing never quite invites you in. The plot is overly segmented and often difficult to follow. You never actually experience Leona reinvented, but only rehashed. Scriptures are placed carefully and predictably. But the worst part - the part that made me groan and roll my eyes, even though I empathized with Ms. Gentry - was the imagery. The imagery, in fact, was what clued me into my likeness with her. At points, her story moved along smoothly enough, but then I'd hit rocky pavement littered by sharp descriptions of every type and of every thing. My mind stumbled and stalled as I tried to follow the faint trail of her plot through the clutter. Some of her images bordered on the ridiculous (sorry, Ms. Gentry, if you ever read this, but it's true - please keep reading), like when she described the main character entering her overbearing mother's hospital room "like the Ty-D-Bol man." The fits and starts are where my mental self-critic inserted itself. "Just why," it asked bluntly, "do you think you could do a better job? Your words are much like hers. You rarely think of a unique phrase or untried description. If you weren't reading this right now, you'd never even see it."
It wasn't a horrible book, but it wasn't one I'd recommend. It had a unique story line and interesting characters. And her descriptions were vivid, though heavy-handed. I ended the book without the sad regret you feel when you've become a part of the literature. But I learned a lot from that book about great literature, and talent, and running with your dream. I hope Ms. Gentry writes again, and I hope she finds her way to clarity and definition. I hope her friends and editors do more than encourage. And I hope that I can make as much of my talent (when I find one!) as she has. The plot line sold me on the book because of my similarity to the main character; my take-away was my similarity with the author.
The ebook I read after that was borrowed from the library. The Help, by Kathryn Stockett, doesn't require my review. I hope I get to visit Jackson, Mississippi (or New York, or Chicago...) with her again soon.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Truth from a Toddler
Warning: Sappy, religious content ahead. Read at your own risk!
Teen was cleaning her bedroom with Toddler on Saturday. While emptying an old backpack, Teen unearthed a small New Testament Bible, and Toddler begged her for it. Daddy, being the preacher that he is, explained to Toddler that this is the Bible - the Jesus Book.
Toddler took this idea and completely ran with it. She would NOT put that Bible down for a minute. She opened it, "read" it, closed it, and carried it around with her all evening long.
When it was time for bed, I let her keep it with her rather than face the tempest that would surely come if I took it. I was glad I did! She held the book up to me and told me, "Momma! This book says Jesus loves me! That's what it's about, Hun-neeee!" Over and over she repeated it. She opened her Bible and noted that there were letters inside, which I explained made words that we can read. Then she closed it and silently pondered it for a minute. In a voice filled with reverence, she said, "There's a power in this book. This book is a power!"
This preaching of hers is old territory for me. I know the Bible is powerful; I know its central message is to bring men and women (and very little girls) to the love of God through Jesus. I know that, and I depend heavily on it. But familiarity with long-memorized verses, and with the old, old story itself, dull my awareness and my thinking. The truths of the Bible become like oxygen - vital for survival, but outside of my daily consideration even as I fully rely on them. I can repeat them even as I can repeat the qualities and uses of oxygen. Faith is a lot like science in that way - filled with wonder at first discovery but everyday-ordinary after some routine usage.
This is, of course, why Jesus wanted us to have faith like that of a little child. Every reading of the ancient book results in a brand spankin' new discovery - a little more fresh oxygen to support life and growth. This is where the verse comes to pass, in my life, anyway, that a little child shall lead them.
Teen was cleaning her bedroom with Toddler on Saturday. While emptying an old backpack, Teen unearthed a small New Testament Bible, and Toddler begged her for it. Daddy, being the preacher that he is, explained to Toddler that this is the Bible - the Jesus Book.
Toddler took this idea and completely ran with it. She would NOT put that Bible down for a minute. She opened it, "read" it, closed it, and carried it around with her all evening long.
When it was time for bed, I let her keep it with her rather than face the tempest that would surely come if I took it. I was glad I did! She held the book up to me and told me, "Momma! This book says Jesus loves me! That's what it's about, Hun-neeee!" Over and over she repeated it. She opened her Bible and noted that there were letters inside, which I explained made words that we can read. Then she closed it and silently pondered it for a minute. In a voice filled with reverence, she said, "There's a power in this book. This book is a power!"
This preaching of hers is old territory for me. I know the Bible is powerful; I know its central message is to bring men and women (and very little girls) to the love of God through Jesus. I know that, and I depend heavily on it. But familiarity with long-memorized verses, and with the old, old story itself, dull my awareness and my thinking. The truths of the Bible become like oxygen - vital for survival, but outside of my daily consideration even as I fully rely on them. I can repeat them even as I can repeat the qualities and uses of oxygen. Faith is a lot like science in that way - filled with wonder at first discovery but everyday-ordinary after some routine usage.
This is, of course, why Jesus wanted us to have faith like that of a little child. Every reading of the ancient book results in a brand spankin' new discovery - a little more fresh oxygen to support life and growth. This is where the verse comes to pass, in my life, anyway, that a little child shall lead them.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Gardening Work
Only three blog posts in July! Disappointing (to me, anyway).
So very much has been going on that I'm surprised I haven't written. These are not things that keep me busy physically, but they take a lot of mental and emotional energy, and that usually means thoughts stewing into written words.
Some things have been good. Toddler has doubled her age. Teen went to a foreign land as a medical missionary. Tween has somehow come across a new self that enjoys being responsible (sometimes).
Some things have been very bad. Beloved friendships are being tried. Life-altering decisions are being made. Good, good things are being pried from my fingertips as I stand, confused, and wonder why.
Growth and pruning. Growth and pruning. Beauty comes, and some of it must be cut away - but not without purpose. As painful as the shears may be, they make room for better, more beautiful things, once the pain dulls and the wounds heal a bit. As the blades bite, the pain leaves me wondering what could possibly spring from this. But, at my age, I've seen it before - this gardening work. And because of that, the pain becomes resignation. There is hope. There is knowledge - good, firm knowledge - that better is coming.
So very much has been going on that I'm surprised I haven't written. These are not things that keep me busy physically, but they take a lot of mental and emotional energy, and that usually means thoughts stewing into written words.
Some things have been good. Toddler has doubled her age. Teen went to a foreign land as a medical missionary. Tween has somehow come across a new self that enjoys being responsible (sometimes).
Some things have been very bad. Beloved friendships are being tried. Life-altering decisions are being made. Good, good things are being pried from my fingertips as I stand, confused, and wonder why.
Growth and pruning. Growth and pruning. Beauty comes, and some of it must be cut away - but not without purpose. As painful as the shears may be, they make room for better, more beautiful things, once the pain dulls and the wounds heal a bit. As the blades bite, the pain leaves me wondering what could possibly spring from this. But, at my age, I've seen it before - this gardening work. And because of that, the pain becomes resignation. There is hope. There is knowledge - good, firm knowledge - that better is coming.
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