In Gennesaret

One of my sweet middle school students turned in an assignment a few weeks ago that was totally whack. She’s a doll. I love her. But I have no idea what she thought she was doing here. I pulled her aside to ask her about it. “Look at the directions. Can you read that to me?” And she did. “Do you know what that means?” I asked. “Yes, ma’am,” she smiled. “So, do you know what you did wrong?”   “Yes, ma’am,” she smiled, taking the paper; “I’ll fix it.” But I wasn’t so sure. “Tell me what you're going to fix,” I asked. She told me . . . and was completely wrong. So, I explained the instructions again. Oh . . . she quickly smiled with apparent understanding. “You get it now?” “Yes, ma’am. Thank you!” she smiled. My instincts made me ask one more time. “So, what are you going to change?” And she explained . . . and was again completely wrong. Bless her heart . She’s such a darling. She wants to please. But she doesn’t listen. I think she thought she was listening. She

Thank you, Lord . I sat outside after dinner, reading some books, pausing between chapters to look up at the tree branches against the blue sky. And I kept saying over and over in my head, Thank you, Lord. You’d have to know me pretty well to understand why this was remarkable. When I look around my backyard, I see a lawn full of weeds and dry patches. The paint on the back door is flaking off. The fence along the back edge of the lot is buckling in and out in various spots. The table I’m sitting at is dirty – I don’t even remember the last time I cleaned it. I’ve got a little bench out here that is leaning sadly to the left and the wood is all faded and scuffed. Compared to the houses I used to live in (again, credit to the ex for housing us well), this is kind of a dump. There was a time when I would have sat out here and only seen the dumpiness. The flaws and imperfections. There was also a time when sitting alone in relative silence would have prompted me to ponder all the

It was Miguel’s birthday. And I love Miguel. But I don’t always love socializing. I’m an introvert. As much as I treasure my people and preach the importance of connecting with others, the stereotypical party event – like for a birthday – is really a strain on my heart and mind. A whole bunch of people just sitting around for the purposes of small talk . . . especially when I don’t know some of those people well . . . all the background noise which my old ears struggle to filter out . . . it’s just hard for me. So, I avoid it. But it was Miguel’s birthday. Miguel is our Zumba instructor. He is positive and fun and energetic and makes us feel good about ourselves when we are looking fat and sweaty and gross. He’s in his final semester of nursing school, and he is going to be a rockin’ nurse. I love Miguel. But I really didn’t want to go to his birthday party. That sounds awful. But y’all, I did have reasons. We were going to a Mexican restaurant after our Zumba class on Monday. Let’

Friends, I am quite distressed by the current political situation. There are politicians out there who show all the signs of genuine mental health disorders. There are politicians out there saying and doing things that I find just inconceivable. There are politicians out there whom I think I might like and respect if I knew them personally . . . but they are standing with the crazies. And I can’t fathom it. I just can’t. And you know what’s nuts? I suspect there are those of you reading this on both sides of the aisle who are nodding in agreement with me. Everybody is crazy. And everybody thinks everybody else is the crazy one. What is WRONG with us, people?? How did we get here? I’ve spent far too much time fretting about this lately . . . but I think I do have a pertinent insight. When I first started directing plays with young people back in Sioux City, I quickly realized that I could not make it my primary goal to put on a great play. Because if that was the objective, t

Delight yourself in the Lord, and he will give you the desires of your heart. (Ps 37:4) In my old Bible, the one with the spine taped up and dated notes written in it from past years, I have a note beside Psalm 37:4. I didn’t date this one, but it must have been written before 2001, when my father died after a 21-year battle with Alzheimer’s disease. There was a time when I thought the desire of my heart was for dad to die and be released from that prison – because Alzheimer’s , people. It’s horrible. But when I wrote this note by this verse, God had just revealed something to me. “My true desire,” I wrote, “is that the family will be relieved of the burdens – and God can do that with dad alive, and probably more to His glory.” I don’t know about any of the rest of the family’s experiences, but I know there was healing that happened in my heart during those last years of his illness that might not have happened had he been killed in a car crash or something. And whether I was awa