In Gennesaret

Another in my continuing saga of analogies between the body and the soul . . . A month or so ago, I woke up hardly able to move my neck. Who can relate, people? It SUCKS. Apparently I’d slept on it funny . . . and had been doing that for a while, I guess, because it had been getting progressively worse for a few days. My kind and thoughtful colleague Lani used to be a massage therapist, and she offered to work on it a bit before the school day started, which helped dramatically – thank you, Lani! A couple days later, she also brought a foam roller to school and showed me how to use it to essentially massage my muscles myself at home. I’d never seen a foam roller. Hadn’t even heard of such before this fall. As part of my job as Middle School Team Lead, I have been seeing in our Athletics teacher’s lesson plans the instructions to use "foam rollers and lacrosse balls" at home between workouts.  Foam rollers . . . I was picturing those cheap little curlers my mom used to put

Last week, I burned the inside of my right forearm pulling a pan of caramel popcorn out of the oven. Not badly, but it hurt like the dickens for a couple hours. (Sidenote: I wonder how old Charles feels about our using his name in a phrase that describes extreme intensity? Is that complimentary or not? But moving on . . . ) Because that burn is on a spot on my arm that doesn’t get touched much, it stopped hurting pretty quickly and just started to heal. I have another burn on the inside of my right pinkie – another caramel corn injury. This one is a blister, right where the joint bends. A tiny little blemish in an unfortunate spot that gets irritated whenever I close that finger on anything. It will heal, too, but it makes its presence known a bit more often. And then there’s the monstrous, ugly bruise on my upper left thigh from last week’s car wreck that looks like something out of a horror movie: a deep evil presence blackening my soul and silently spreading its malignity throug

It’s only been a couple days since the accident, so I assume this image will eventually stop invading my brain when I’m lying in bed at night – the back of the blue Nissan rushing at me at a terrifying speed while my foot pounds on the brake, my hands clench the steering wheel, and the tires screech on the pavement . . . and then a dusty white airbag explodes into my face and I wonder for a split second if I’m about to die. I’m fine, for the record – physically, at least. A big, ugly, black bruise on my upper left thigh and a little stiff in the joints, but that’s it. The guy in the Nissan is fine, as is the Nissan. My van is NOT fine. The insurance company hasn’t gotten back to me yet, but I suspect the faithful Sienna has seen its last days. It could have been worse, SO MUCH worse. I have so much to be thankful for, and I am. But I keep seeing that blue Nissan rushing at me when I close my eyes.  After several agonizing years wondering where in the world God was, 2021 has been

Y’all, I’ve never been terribly fond of Naomi, Ruth’s mother-in-law. Do you know this story? Naomi and her husband leave Israel and move into Moab. (I’ve often wondered about that – I mean, yes, there was a famine, but Moab ? The Jews were all about cocooning themselves away from the pagans around them – by God’s command – so how exactly did they justify this relocation? I hate to accuse them of being bad Jews, but . . .) While they are there, Naomi’s husband dies and her two sons marry Moabite women (which mom couldn’t have been happy about, but just what did she expect?). Then the sons die as well, leaving Naomi all alone with two foreign girls. So, she decides to head back home where she belonged . . . and she has a bit of a pity party as she does so. Now, hear me – that pity party of hers is understandable, but it also feels annoyingly over-the-top. (Please don’t crucify me for that, friends – I’m just being honest.) And let me add that later in the story, when she’s advising R

My last blog post was about my youngest. Today I write about my eldest. That's her on the left -- the pretty one with the long hair. Friday night last week, I sat and watched a Christmas program my daughter directed for a homeschool co-op she teaches at. This was the third show she’s directed for them. The first play was supposed to happen in May of 2020 and got postponed, of course, because of covid. Once they got permission to perform, she had to scramble to throw it all back together again in two weeks during the summer with a bunch of new cast members. She did me proud. It was trial by fire for a new director – I figured every play after that would be a breeze. Her second play was last spring, and I was nervous for her as I watched. Folks, directing is hard . It’s a lot of pieces to pull together, especially in a small organization like this where she had very little assistance and the people who were willing to help had no theatre experience or knowledge. She had mostly b

See this pretty girl here? With the smile on her face and the spring in her step? She’s my youngest. And my friends, SHE walked a marathon yesterday morning. Kind of.  She was supposed to do a real one, here in San Antonio, the final requirement for a class she’s in this semester. But she ended up getting cast in a play that opened this weekend and couldn’t get down here in time for the real run, so her professor gave her permission to do the walk on her own time with her roommate proctoring her. She tried to approximate the real event as much as possible – she even started at 7:15am, bless her heart. The eldest and I were in town to see the play Saturday night, so we hung around in the morning to cheer her on in this athletic endeavor. We parked the van by the football stadium at a spot on her circular route, and every thirty minutes or so when she passed us, we got out to hoot and holler and hand her a water bottle and a protein bar (or candy bar – I know what motivates my girl).

Mothering did NOT come naturally to me. (Does it come naturally to anyone? It seemed like my friends had better instincts about the process than I did. I could have been wrong. But I digress . . . ) When my eldest was a baby, I, of course, consumed all sorts of books and magazines to try to figure this parenting stuff out. Problem was, those experts wouldn't necessarily address the specific situation I was struggling with. And when they did, they didn't necessarily agree with each other. And when they did, they certainly didn't know me and my kid. About when my daughter hit the age of two (I believe), we found ourselves in the trenches of the Night Wars. Like many parents, we had unwittingly trained her to only be able to fall asleep with our help -- we rocked her until she was drowsy enough to go directly to Slumberland when we lay her in her crib. This made for sweet, cuddly moments with a precious darling at 8pm . . . and nightmarish hours with a screaming demon child at

Recently, my Bible study lesson asked me to name people I know who are peacemakers. And I tell you – I had to laugh for a minute. Is anybody actually trying to make peace in America these days? Anybody? I mean, at best, those of us who aren’t attacking perceived enemies are simply trying to avoid being attacked ourselves. Nobody seems to have the inclination to try to make peace right now. We're too invested in being right. But as I pondered the question, my mind gradually stumbled upon Stephanie. Stephanie is the administrative assistant at my school, the one who stays in the main office during the day. And she creates an atmosphere of peace in that space. Wanna know how? She simply affirms the value of everyone who walks in the door. Whatever they have to say is important and deserves to be fully understood; whatever they are experiencing at that moment is important and deserves her complete attention and to be addressed. That doesn’t mean every person’s words or ex

I just threw away a half-full expired container of Parmesan cheese. And I tried to stifle my shame as I did so. Because, you see, this is not something that would have happened in my pre-earthquake life. I cooked back then. I had a well-stocked, well-organized kitchen from which I could prepare real food for my family. I shopped once a week from a well-planned list derived from a collection of meal ideas that I cycled through, keeping an eye on food I had in the cabinet and in the fridge so I would be using up what I had and let nothing go to waste. I even tried to cook relatively healthy food. And occasionally, I looked for new recipes that my family would like so I could try them, too. Because that’s what a good wife and mother does. Right? I mean, I’m not claiming to be any kind of kitchen goddess . . . but I at least tried . Doing less than that didn’t feel like an option. I don’t try anymore. And there’s a lot of other stuff I don’t do anymore either. I don’t dust every week

November 1 is All Saints Day. Soooo, raise your hand if you were aware of this. Okay, thank you – now keep your hand up if this fact will be affecting your day in any noticeable way. Mm-hmm. Growing up Baptist, All Saints Day meant nothing to me. It was just an ancient historical something that gave us a reason for costumes and candy on October 31 st . But I have since learned that it’s a day when we (that is, we Christians) are supposed to remember and honor the saints that “went before us”. And that's a lovely idea. So I felt an urge in church, when All Saints Day was mentioned, to schedule a pause in my day to remember believers who went before me . . . in particular, people at University Baptist Church in Wichita, the church I grew up in. Like Dorothy Melugin. From the earliest age I can remember, Mrs. Melugin was the kitchen lady – I think her official role was Chair of the Hospitality Committee (because we were Baptists and had to committee everything to death). She w

( God, beaming at the humans he just created.) Aw, look at them! They’re so cute with their hair and their smiles and their short attention spans and their fragile egos. I’m going to enjoy hanging out with these guys. But now I need to figure out how to make that happen. Relationship , I mean. You gotta know someone to have a relationship with them, right? I know them , of course – inside and out. But I have to figure out how they can know me . . . how they can even understand who I am. I mean, they can’t really comprehend me in my entirety, bless their limited little hearts. But I can give them glimpses of me, here and there. Enough to make them want more and seek me out. ‘Cause I want them to seek me out. So let’s see . . . I’ll start with   . . . a Parent. Yes! Perfect. Every human will have a Parent. A stronger, bigger fellow human who protects them and nurtures them . . . who belongs to them no matter what . . . who adores them even on the days when they seem to be getti

A few weeks ago, someone on Facebook mentioned Rich Mullins. Rich Mullins,  people!   I used to have a “best of” cassette with a bunch of his songs. (Actually, I may still have it somewhere – I just don’t have anything to play a cassette tape on anymore.) But that random mention on FB sent me on a Rich Mullins jag. The man had some really powerful music. “Calling Out Your Name” absolutely sends me soaring in worship. “We Are Not as Strong as We Think We Are” moves me deeply. And I spent a couple days driving around with hands raised in praise (well, one hand up, one still on the wheel) while listening to “If I Stand”. Googling the songs again sent me also to articles talking about Mullins himself, someone I didn’t really know much about. I knew he died relatively young in a car crash (in 1997 at the age of 41). I also learned that he went to college at Friends University in Wichita, my hometown – which explained his reference to “the Keeper of the Plains” which I always wondered abou

Not many people know that I have a master’s degree in Guidance and Counseling. Mainly because I’ve never used it, at least not professionally. The only real “counseling” I’ve done outside of friends and family was the twelve-week internship at a middle school which I had to do to close out the program and get my degree. That experience proved to me that I had no business being a school counselor, bless my heart. My mentor was a wonderful African-American woman whom I admired and enjoyed; I could have spent hours soaking in her wisdom and never have gotten saturated. A few weeks into the internship, she organized a weekly meeting with a group of boys who were dealing with anger issues, a group that we were supposed to co-lead. She gradually let me take over more of the leadership of the group as time went on – which, of course, was exactly what was needed for my education but unfortunately not at all what was needed for these poor boys’ edification. Do you remember what I said a w

 I’ve been legally divorced for just over a year. The actual process of divorce took almost a year as well, and the decision to divorce was weighing on me for another year before that. Three years, friends. Three years with about a million and a half decisions I had to make. Some of those decisions were immensely consequential (Is it time to file – am I sure I’m done?). Some were relatively trivial but still exhausting (Which dishes do I keep? Curtains in the bedroom or just blinds? Buy new socks or sew up the holes in the ones I have?). But the accumulation of choice after choice after stinkin’ choice made every choice on the table terribly difficult. By the end of 2020, I was so done. I was ready to fake insanity and let the state take care of me. Of course, all these decisions wouldn’t have been nearly as hard if I wasn’t so concerned with making the right decisions. Because I believed that there was always a right choice and a wrong choice – that God had one direction he wante

On a recent date night, my guy and I shared the stories of losing our parents. (Yes, I know – not exactly a cheery topic for courtship repartee. That’s one of the things about dating at this age. You’ve got several decades of life experiences to catch each other up on: the good, the sad, the hilarious, the embarrassing . . .) So yeah, we talked about people dying. And then the next morning, I woke up to one of my favorite weekly emails in my inbox – “The Word Before Work” by Jordan Raynor. I love this guy. He writes about having a spiritual perspective on our work, and this particular email was talking about . . . well, about dying. In short, sin has ensured that nobody will ever finish the work they envision completing in their lifetime. . . We will all die with unfinished symphonies. Our to-do lists will never be completed. There will always be a gap between what we can imagine accomplishing in this life and what we can actually get done. Unfinished symphonies . . . what a love

I spent five Thursday nights this summer in an adult improvisation class at Crystal Sea Drama Company. Thank you, Mike Dannelly – it was a joy. I love watching improv, but God did NOT grace me with the gift of spontaneity. As fun as it looked, I was afraid I would suck at it. But being a drama teacher, it behooves me to have some basic knowledge of the art. So, I signed up for the class. And I learned so stinkin’ much. One of the basic concepts behind improvisation is the “Yes . . . And”. When someone on your team takes a story in one direction, you respond with “Yes,” and then continue in that direction with “And”. Actor A : Look! There’s a spaceship landing on our front lawn! Actor B : Yes . . . and I bet they’re bringing Uncle Larry back! Oh, friends . . . this is a concept we need to apply to life. To ALL the things. YES! – Folks, we need to look for what we can say yes to. Say yes whenever possible. This is true in parenting: “Yes, you can pick what you wear today – w

I’ve lived in Texas for eight years now. Eight years. Long enough to make “y’all” a regular pronoun in my conversations. Long enough to find myself reflexively blessing the hearts of people who annoy the crap out of me. Long enough to call Jesus “sweet” as I plead his mercy over that annoyance. TEXAS, y’all. It changes you if you let it. But that phrase: “Bless his heart!” (along with the extended version, “Bless her ever-lovin’ little heart,” and the abbreviated version delivered with rolled eyes and gritted teeth, “BLESS”) . . . that sweet little Southern phrase has gradually been doing a number on me, I think. I’m well aware that it is often used as a nice-girl weapon – a way to call someone a hot mess while sounding sweet about it. But it doesn’t have to be used that way. And you know, it turns out that speaking a blessing over the heart of an irritant is a pretty fruitful daily practice. When my student continues to speak out of turn in class, interrupting my well-plan

This is me the day I was given my little face shield thing to wear at school a year ago in August. It’s quite the contraption, y’all. My voice booms in my ears when I wear it . . . light reflects on it at certain angles, making it difficult to read through occasionally . . . I was constantly afraid I was going to sneeze in the stupid thing . . . but it is certainly easier to teach in than a mask. By the end of the year, it was second nature to me. I forgot I was even wearing it sometimes (thus, again, the constant fear of sneezing in it). Nevertheless, on the last day of school, I was tempted to ceremoniously chuck the thing in the dumpster in my joy at the school year being over. We’re all getting vaccinated! Numbers are declining! Back to normal school in the fall! Woo hoo! And then here we are. I was masked up again in church last Sunday and annoyed at how little air support I could get to sing. At the play I attended that afternoon, the audience was asked to wear masks (my gi

A few weeks ago, I was back in New Jersey for a visit and drove by my old house. We lived in a neighborhood called Sturbridge Woods – so named because of the woods , appropriately enough. The developers intentionally left as many of the big, beautiful trees as possible and built the houses around them. We had very little grass: a small patch in front and a small patch in back. Most of the yard was natural wooded area. It was really beautiful, friends. Lovely shade in the summer. Lovely bird twitters in the spring. Lovely colors in the fall. The leaf clean-up every October was a pain in the butt (credit to the ex who took on the bulk of that duty). But ohhh, the beauty! I loved this house. I loved living in this house, homeschooling in this house, having friends over in this house, hosting overnight guests in this house. It was a big place to clean – and yes, I experienced some really painful moments while we resided here. But I have fond memories of our life in Sturbridge Woods on

Look at this tree. It lies out here in a field near the route to my favorite nature trails by my house. It’s a sad sight, yes? I mean, it’s completely uprooted. Completely dead . The first time I saw it, I had to wonder what in the world killed the poor thing. And I couldn’t help but contrast this arboreal corpse with the beautiful forest I walk through with the dog every day. I have to admit: it looks like the grim reaper has visited there, too. The lower half (or more) of most of the trees are just gray, ashy-looking branches extending all directions, branches that would probably easily snap if I tried to break them. But the trees are still standing. Standing strong. What’s more, when you look at the very tops of the trees, there is green . New growth sprouting out in response to the sunshine that reaches the tippy-tops up there. When I was first exploring these new stomping grounds a year ago, I found myself relating to those trees. I suspect I’ve got some deadness underneath

 I spent the last two weeks mentoring three student directors as they directed a dozen student actors in plays written by two student playwrights (who I also mentored in a playwriting class last spring). It was exhausting. And it was fabulous. CSDC’s New Play Festival is probably the best thing we do, in my opinion. Not because of the great show it produces (although it was a good show), but because of the great work it does in our students. If you’d been hanging out at our studio and observing closely, here are some of the things you would have seen happening there in the last couple weeks: -         Actors did exercises to practice speaking loudly and clearly . . . and learned that their voices deserve to be heard and understood. -         Students completed a cleaning job every day before leaving the building . . . and learned to serve others without complaining or arguing. -         Directors had to make do with the costume and prop items that were available for them at the