In Gennesaret

Y’all, my hair . I don’t know what to do with my hair. For a few years, I’ve had this little white-gray streak right at the top of my hairline (think Stacy London from "What Not To Wear", but much less pronounced). It hasn’t been very noticeable because of the way my hair naturally falls. But I wish I could make it more noticeable. It’s . . . I don’t know. A little unique and sassy. I like it actually. The color on the rest of my head, however, has been managed with chemicals for years – and that’s a problem now. See, one of the consequences of my daughters moving out is that I have nobody in the house to apply the Clairol Nice & Easy #7 Dark Blonde Root Touch-Up, which means I have gradually been getting grayer over the last six months. So, I’ve considered whether I should give up and just embrace the new look. My main hang-up has always been The Line – you know, that obvious and unattractive boundary that gradually descends down one’s head and separates the half tha

I don’t know if this is a new trend this year or what, but all of a sudden, I keep hearing people pontificate about the song, “Mary, Did You Know.” As in, they're downright offended by the thing. “Of course, she knew all that!” they say. “Haven’t you read your Bible? This song is so messed up.” Some Facebook friend of mine posted a video of a woman portraying Mary, singing her response: “Yes, I frickin’ knew . . .!” Oh, come ON, people. First of all, the song is beautiful. Let the world enjoy a beautiful piece of music. All the mindless claptrap out there playing on the Christmas stations . . . at least this one is proclaiming truths about who Jesus is. But more than that, I don’t have any issue with the lyrics. Scripture is pretty clear that for a long time, even Jesus’ disciples didn’t really understand who he was and what he came for – certainly not that he was “Lord of all creation” and “heaven’s perfect Lamb” and “the great I Am”. Yes, Mary knew this baby was something s

Advent’s a bit of a weird thing to me. The church I grew up in didn’t practice Advent. I don’t remember actually doing the weekly candle-lighting ritual until we moved to New Jersey. And it was sweet, for sure, but not so terribly meaningful. I mentioned this with a group of friends the other day – that “Advent” wasn’t really a thing for me. It’s all just “Christmas”. One of those friends grew thoughtful; apparently Advent really does have a lot of meaning for her. She celebrates it as a time of entering into what life was like before Christ came, a time when the church “makes present this ancient expectancy of the Messiah”, knowing that somebody is coming, and we are just waiting . . . and waiting . . . Well, hmmmmm. Watching “The Chosen” has brought this a little more home to me. There’s one particular episode when the disciples are sitting around talking about when they were young and had dreams of what it would be like when the Messiah came to liberate Israel, and how they had ho

‘Tis the gift-giving season. Sigh . . . I wish I did this better. Gift-giving is not my love language. -  The Christmas List. BIG SIGH . . . It played an imperative role in my Christmases Past with the in-laws. Gift-giving is their love language, so they were adamant about needing a list. Early on, this was a joy because there were all sorts of things that we needed when we were young, just starting out, and relatively poor. But as time went on and my genuine needs grew fewer, it became a problem because it kind of forced me to manufacture desires that wouldn’t have been there otherwise. Honestly, it wasn’t a good practice – for me or for my children. I’m grateful that my girls have come to see that, too. Now that they’ve reached that age of starting life on their own and having many material needs, the Christmas list is valid. But they are aware now of needs versus wants . And they seem to be content without the wants but joyful and grateful when they get them . . . which is whe

Aaaand I’m back to doing jigsaw puzzles – a suitable use of time for the convalescent, right? When my sister came to stay with me at the beginning of my recovery, she brought some puzzles with her. She left one with me – this Christmas one you see in the picture. I LOVE this puzzle! I have done it over and over and over and over since she left. I suspect this reveals some freakish form of neurosis in me. Turns out that while we share a love of jigsaws, my sister and I do them quite differently. For one thing, I do the same puzzles repeatedly – the pleasure for me is not as much in discovering the solution as in knowing the solution. (Yeah, I’m weird.) Apparently, my sister rarely does a puzzle more than once. Which is why I got to keep the new Christmas one. Also, the plastic trays you see there? That’s her idea. She uses small box lids (she brought hers from home), but I grabbed Tupperware lids when she left. It’s a great idea: something to physically separate the pieces, but I

A Facebook friend recently posted a link that just about set my hair on fire. "Music to Avoid", the picture was titled, with the name of a contemporary Christian artist underneath. "Here is our latest post where we have put together links to resources and videos showing why certain popular 'teachers' and/or Christian artists should be marked and avoided." Marked and avoided. Y'ALL. I am all about being careful what we put into our minds. Yes, we need to pay attention to what we are listening to and singing at church on Sundays -- or anytime and anywhere. We need to be Berean in examining the teaching we hear from the pulpit or anywhere (see Acts 17). Yes. Do this . But am I the only one troubled by that phrase "mark and avoid"? I'm not familiar with the particular artist they were castigating in this story, but if she's like most Christian musicians that are successful enough to have a following, she has some good music and some bad mus

SCOFF (verb): to speak to someone or about something in a scornfully derisive or mocking way If you’ve read this blog much at all, you’re probably aware of how much I love words. Here’s a fun one: “scoff”. Say it with a British accent and an offended look on your face. Think Professor McGonagall. Or Dame Judi Dench. It came to mind during a recent interaction when I felt someone was scoffing at me. Being scoffed at is NOT pleasant. It is insulting. Yet it seems that scoffing has become a new American pastime. Our favorite celebrities and political figures and social media personalities . . . they’re generally the folks who have witty one-liners to slam the people we disagree with. All the memes we pass around gleefully . . . they’re bursting with contempt and mockery. We saturate ourselves in it every day. It’s no wonder it starts flowing out of our own mouths without our even realizing it. Scornful derision. Mocking. Let’s be honest: it’s terribly unattractive. I mean, it’s a

So, I have some breaking news for my Christian friends after a divisive year and a difficult election season: the Church will not be destroyed. It will survive. This is a certainty. Read the end of the story (which we’ve got in our hot little hands – either in print or on your Bible app). We have it on good authority from the church’s very own founder and maintainer: “ the gates of hell will not prevail against it. ” Which means the government of the United States will not prevail against it either. And neither will the secular culture. Nor the Religious Right. The Church will survive. No doubt about it. The way some folks are talking and acting these days, you’d think that was in question. There’s a whole lot of panicking going on. Ohhh, the transgender folk . . . ohhhh, the MAGA idiots . . . . ohhhh, the socialists . . .  there’s folks out there marryin’ people that shouldn’t be married . . . destroyin’ the planet with their sinful carbon emissions . . . makin’ us get shots lik

Audacious (adj.): willing to take bold risks This is one of my middle schoolers’ vocabulary words this quarter, and they had an assignment yesterday to discuss with one of their parents an audacious goal they want to set for themselves for the end of 2022. I was kind of proud of that assignment – forcing them to use the new word in the context of their own real lives and to have a meaningful conversation with a parent. Win-win. But then I realized that I shouldn’t ask my students to do something I’m not willing or able to do myself. Sigh . . . I don’t remember who coined the term “BHAG” (Big, Hairy, Audacious Goal), but it’s a term I like. I mean, I like it because I like words and I like audacity and, in a theoretical sense, I like the idea behind a BHAG. I just have a hard time coming up with one for myself. The major changes in my life in the last couple years (single again, kids out of the house) have prompted people to ask me what I’m going to do with myself now. And that’

So, a couple of significant things happened this past Tuesday. First, there was a midterm election that will have a huge impact on the direction of our country for the next couple years. And second, I went to the hospital and came home without a uterus. The first event affects the entire nation. The second affects me and a bunch of people around me. The first has filled me for weeks with intense frustration and profound discouragement about the state of our world and even of the church. The second is reminding me that God is still there and still good and so are his people. It’s only been a couple days, but I seem to be healing well. Once the doctor actually got inside me, she found more bad stuff in there than we were aware of, so it was a good thing we didn’t put this off like I was seriously considering. A God thing. People messaged me all day Tuesday and have kept messaging me with prayers for a safe procedure and a smooth recovery. My two sisters and two daughters

My eldest daughter was born eleven days after her due date, on the day we had already scheduled to have her induced if she continued to be stubborn about making an appearance. Eleven days overdue. The rest of you mothers are feeling my pain here. At one point in those eleven days, I settled myself in a full tub of bathwater to get some relief from the weight I was carrying. I sat there naked and wet (a vulnerable position to be in) with ridiculous levels of hormones swirling through my systems (again, Mamas, you know ). Nibbling at some of my homemade caramel popcorn, I stared at my swollen belly and sobbed for at least an hour. Not for the discomfort and frustration of that present moment . . . not for the pain I knew was coming during delivery . . . but for the pain I was suddenly, out of nowhere, imagining in my precious child’s future. I pictured my beautiful girl in darling pigtails and a sweet little dress skipping away to play with other kiddos on a playground . . . and ru

  I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit, he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. (John 15:1-2) When I'm walking through the forest by my house, I am forever fascinated by the trees. The tippy tops where the sunlight hits have green leaves reaching for the sky. But at the bottom of the trunks where I am walking, there's nothing but dead branches, so gray they almost look like ash. And they speak to my heart somehow. They remind me of a summer morning at our old house in town about eight years ago. In a moment completely uncharacteristic of me, I decided to get out the ladder and trim a few dead branches I saw in one of our live oaks. Once up there, I noticed more and more dead branches. Then I glanced to another set of trees at the side of the yard and saw work to be done there, too, so I dragged the ladder to that spot and started snipping some more. And more. And m

My college roommate Christine was a wailer. When she was upset or things went wrong, she would plop herself down on the bed, close her eyes, turn the corners of her mouth down pathetically, and let out a long, medium-pitched, mournful wa-a-a-illlll . . . usually for intentional comedic effect. And that was generally the effect it had. I laughed. Anyone else in the room laughed. We would go wrap our arms around her, gushing melodramatic words of sympathy and comfort. And eventually we’d all be rolling on the bed together, giggling. It wasn’t until I tried this trick myself that I realized what a genius this girl was. Once, in a sudden moment of my own great exasperation and distress, I erupted into a "Christine", scrunching up my face with a dramatic wail of at least twenty seconds. And lo and behold . . . I genuinely felt better! The tension in my body relaxed. The screaming in my brain quieted for a moment. Suddenly, I felt capable of handling the situation. It was quit

Zinc makes me nauseous. That’s the conclusion I’ve come to. When I had covid this summer, a friend recommended Zinc (and some Selenium to help the Zinc get absorbed). And because I was so desperate to not get desperately sick, I took her advice – advice that seemed to work quite effectively, thank you, Marla. Then a few weeks later, when I started getting a cold of the more typical variety, I remembered the Zinc regimen and pulled those bottles out again. And lo and behold, that cold took an atypically mild and short route through my body and left. I’m sold on the Zinc thing now. Except for this: as my cold symptoms dissipated, I started finding that Zinc to be difficult to swallow. Literally. It got stuck in my throat, and I had to eat something to make it move. Then I started noticing that I felt a little nauseous right after I took that pill. So, I adjusted my habits and took it at mealtimes, which helped a little bit. But a strange new door had now been opened. All of a sud

My guy tells me that it is “the writer’s gift and curse to redeem trouble with language.” Shall we test that concept? I had my first colonoscopy yesterday. Some moments and reflections: - Toilets need built-in entertainment stations for such a time as this. - I suspect that the cup (see photo) that they gave me to mix my Magic Drano Drink in was bewitched because I sipped and sipped and sipped at that crappy stuff, and it seemed multiply at my touch like the treasure in the vault at Gringott’s. Why is there so much of this . . .?!? - A snippet from a group text with some patient friends who listened to me complain all evening: Me: Will I get demerits if I don’t finish the whole drink? Diane: You really should follow their instructions. If your colon is not properly cleansed, you will have gone through this for nothing. Me: That’s the wrong answer. I thought you loved me. She doesn’t. Diane doesn’t love me. - On the positive side, I have rediscovered Jell-O. Cheap,

I almost didn’t go to church today. There was a family retreat happening this weekend, so pretty much my whole Sunday School class was gone. I’m having a colonoscopy tomorrow (the joys of growing old), so I have all that jolly fun prep stuff going on, plus some other medical issues I don’t need to go into now. I mean, I could come up with all sorts of reasons NOT to go to church this morning. My guy told me recently that the typical regular church attender averages 2.5 Sundays per month these days. So, it’s really no big deal for me to miss once in a while, I suppose. I certainly do better than average. I think. Well, I know I used to. I grew up in one of THOSE Southern Baptist families, you know: if the church building was unlocked, we were in there. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, special events . . . we even hunted down a Southern Baptist church to attend when we were on vacation. It simply wasn’t an option to just NOT go to church on a Sunday morning unless you

I just turned 54. That means I’ve played piano for forty years. Well, I’ve played piano for more than forty years . . . I would say I’ve been playing piano well for about forty years. Recitals and contests. Accompanying groups at school. Offertory specials at church. Lots and lots of playing piano. But a few years ago, when my earthquake hit, I stopped. Just wasn’t in the mood anymore. And then my music was stored away where I couldn’t get to it . . . and when I got it out, most of it was ruined (you can read about that here if you missed that drama). In any case, the few bits of music that survived I’ve been getting out and picking through again once in a while. And it’s kind of nice to be back at the ivories, but it’s also been frustrating. Because I’ve lost some of my touch. Really challenging songs that I used to nail, and really beautiful songs that I used to love, I’m stumbling through these days. And as I stumble, I imagine the days when I used to play them to great acclai

She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. (Luke 13) So Jesus heals her . . . and of course, I know Luke is talking about a physical healing here. But that’s not where my mind went when Brother Mike read this scripture in the service last Sunday. Because the sentence before this one describes her as a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. And oh, friend – do I know women (and men) who are crippled by spirits . By spirits of INFERIORITY: “She’s so much better at this than I am . . . he should have this job instead of me . . . everyone knows I don’t belong here . . .” By spirits of INCOMPETENCE: “I keep messing up . . . I will never get this right . . . I have no idea what I’m doing . . . I am never good enough.” By spirits of INADEQUACY: “I’m not enough of a businessman to run this department . . .I’m not enough of a disciplinarian to raise my kids right . . . I’m not enough of a woman to make him happy . . . I am never enough .” Sp

There was a ten-day period in 2006 when God and I were not on speaking terms. That is, I  was not speaking to God . I literally stood in front of my bathroom mirror every morning, looked at the ceiling, scowled angrily, and spat, "I am NOT talking to YOU today!!!" And by golly, I did not . I don't need to detail what was going on at the time that led me to this behavior -- it was big stuff. But I suspect most of you have had these moments, yes? Maybe not quite that level of anger, or for quite that length of duration, but yeah -- mad at God. If you haven't experienced that, you're lucky. Well . . . maybe you're lucky. Okay, actually, maybe not. Cuz here's the thing: I ultimately grew closer  to God through those ten days of angry pouting. This was the most real and honest I had ever been with him. This was the biggest chance I had ever taken with our relationship -- believing that I could intentionally walk away and he would still be there when I walked ba