In Gennesaret

Wherever he leads, I’ll go. (I’ll gooooo . . .) Something someone said the other day brought the chorus of that old hymn to mind. I haven’t heard that in years – decades probably. It was an invitation hymn, one of a handful that we cycled through in my childhood church, so I heard it often. [Moving up a third] Wherever he leads, I’ll go. (I’ll goooooo . . .) That parenthetical echo was the lower voices in the congregation who knew how to read music and harmonize. In particular, there’s a certain voice I hear in my memory of a gentleman with a booming bass who seemed to groan that syllable, stretching it out to eternity, bless his heart. I’ll follow my Christ who loves me so . . . The other notable thing about this song’s echo in my mind is its somberness. We sang it slo-o-owly. Solemnly. Maybe because it was an invitation hymn and we didn’t want to disturb someone doing business with God. Maybe because the first verse begins with, “’Take up thy cross and follow me,’ I heard m...

Early one morning this week, in the midst of some casual exchanges among a few friends in a small group text, dear Jessica suddenly dropped this: “Since we are awake and communicating, can I ask you to pray for me? Tomorrow is my brother’s 2 nd birthday in heaven, so to speak. I am sitting in my kitchen weeping.” And of course, the sisters stopped to pray. By text. (This is the new world we live in.) JoAnne (a widow well-versed in grief) typed an eloquent plea to our Father for peace and comfort, which we all Amen’d. We committed to pray for our dear friend and her family this week.  And Maureen said, “Thank you for inviting us into your grief.” Those words hung with me for the rest of the morning. Thank you . Thank you for inviting us into your grief, for trusting us with your heart. Thank you for pulling us into your sadness so we can carry it with you. It is an honor and a privilege and a blessing. Really – it is. A recent episode of The Chosen reminded me that in New ...

I watched The Passion of the Christ over Easter weekend. Yep, the old, gory, Mel Gibson flick. It wasn’t my first time; I saw it in the theater when it initially came out and was, of course, quite moved. A friend told me then that she sat through the movie in tears, saying to herself the whole time, He did this for ME . Voluntarily. Of his own free will. He endured this for me. The story had a different effect on me nineteen years later. The first time, I was moved by Christ’s suffering. This time, I was horrified by his tormentors. HORRIFIED . The savagery. The laughter –  the heartless, bloodthirsty  laughter.  The abject cruelty. I could hardly bear it. Even if someone tried to argue that Gibson was maximizing it all for effect, history makes it quite clear that the Romans scourged and crucified many people, and that it was sadistic and torturous. Stories of southern lynchings in the 1960s affect me similarly. I’m also reading Leon Uris’ Exodus  r...

My mood was quite appropriate this past weekend for “Holy Saturday”, the day we remember Jesus still in the tomb and the disciples still in hiding. I was in a pit . I can’t really tell you why. I mean, I’m not sure I would share with the whole world here all the reasons for the depressions I experience even if I could . . . but I can’t. I was just in a pit. Tired. Sad. Crying. And things kept happening that set me off more. I wanted to crawl into a corner and be sad and alone . . . and yet aloneness was really the last thing I wanted or needed. I have no idea why, but I paused for a moment in my despondency and posted on Facebook that I would appreciate some prayers. That’s all. Just “please pray”. A quiet little cry of desperation – I don’t even know if I expected anyone to see it. But before I knew it, 40-some people had commented on my post that they were praying, and more than 60 had left me encouraging emojis. Another friend sent a Facebook message asking if I was okay, and ...

I got an email from a parent the other day. She started out thanking me for all the things her student has learned about writing in my class, and then she expressed concern about the way I had dealt with her child in a particular lesson that week. It was gentle feedback, and I thanked her for the feedback and for its gentleness. Not all parents are so gentle, let me tell you. And many parents simply grumble at home and don’t give feedback at all (I try to remind them that we can’t fix a problem that we don’t know exists). As it turned out, she (and her child) misunderstood the situation, so I was glad she sent the email and we were able to clarify things. But my first reading of it was painful. Even the gentle criticism can still occasionally trigger old perfectionist tendencies and inadequacy lies I’ve believed. But thank Jesus I’m not where I used to be. God has grown me and healed a lot of damage. I’ve learned better how to deal with criticism, whether it’s gentle or ugly....