In Gennesaret

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. -     ...

  PROOF TEXTING: taking isolated quotes and establishing a position that may not be the author’s original intent. As a long-time student of the Bible, I try very hard not to do this. When I feel like God is speaking directly to me through scripture (which I do, occasionally), I hold that message lightly, just in case it turns out I’m reading my own desires into the words or something. I’m well aware of the dangers of looking for “hidden messages” in scripture or applying a passage to a personal situation where it may not apply. Nevertheless . . . I find it astonishing how often Bible verses have popped up out of nowhere and been specific (sometimes word for word ) answers to questions I was having or prayers I’d been praying – especially during the most trying and difficult times of my life. In particular, God used a certain motif to communicate with me throughout the struggles I was having with my marriage: the image of wasteland becoming fertile ground. Over and over and ov...

Who’s watching The Chosen ? Yes, I see those hands. The rest of you need to get with it: this is an awesome show. I’m on my third viewing of each episode – one time on my own, another with my daughters, another with my guy. And of course, I notice more details each time. Right now, I’m particularly paying attention to the prayers the Jewish characters say. Like, there’s a scene where Jesus, James, and John are sleeping in the same room, and they all close their eyes and say the same prayer before they get out of bed. Not in unison, like drones, but it is the same prayer, so it must be a prescribed formulaic thing. One of those rituals Baptists hate. I grew up Southern Baptist, so I had definite ideas of how prayers were supposed to go, when they were supposed to happen, what they were supposed to sound like. But then that’s how it is for everyone, right? We pray the prayers we hear – at least at first. That seems right and righteous and good. If someone had told me in high school t...

If only I may touch his clothes, I shall be made well . (Mark 5:28) Remember this woman? With the “issue of blood”? (Side note: Ew . Bless her poor, little heart.) Interesting story, this one. There’s a lot that could be said against this poor lady. For one thing, she really shouldn’t have been in the crowd at all that day; this sickness of hers made her ceremonially unclean. If she was a good law-abiding Jew, she would have been quarantining at home. Shame on her. Also, the idea that touching Jesus’ robe would do anything for her smacks of superstition . . . like trying to get healed by touching the severed forearm of St. Jude (which you can apparently visit in Illinois – there’s another “ew” . . .). How ridiculous. Even SHE thought she’d done something wrong. When Jesus stops and asked who touched him, she confesses with “fear and trembling”. If you’re looking to knock the woman, there’s plenty to knock – and there are plenty who spend their time looking to knock people who do...

Y'all, I had the most surreal experience several days ago. In a book I was reading, the author described a recurring dream he had had . . . a recurring dream he said a lot of people have had . . . a recurring dream that I myself have had. Eep . . . it freaked me out for a moment. This led to an interesting discussion with my guy about dreams and what they might mean. (But then, do dreams “mean”? I’m not sure that’s an accurate verb there. Maybe they reflect? They signify? No, that’s still kind of “meaning”. Sorry . . . I’m going all Vocabulary Teacher here. Let me get back on track.) So, here’s the recurring dream: There’s a door in my house that I haven’t noticed or paid attention to before. So, I open it and find a lovely room I didn’t know was there. And in that room, there’s a door or hallway that leads to another room. And there are more rooms . . . maybe stairs . . . maybe more hallways . . . but rooms and rooms and more beautiful rooms . . . some of them ballroom-si...

Seriously, if you haven’t heard of Nightbirde, you need to get your Google on right now and find her America’s Got Talent audition. It’s beautiful and inspiring. Her story is everywhere all of a sudden, and for good reason. I love her stage name; it came from a bird she heard singing in the dark outside her window, a bird that couldn’t see the sun yet but was singing anyway because it believed that the sun was coming. Lovely. Before I saw the audition, I had already shared on Facebook a post I saw about her, an excerpt from a blog she wrote that was (as Roberta Flack puts it) singing my life with its words. She was talking about the horrible trials she had been going through and the struggles of her relationship with God through it all. And her words articulated some deep places in my heart. My trials weren’t as great as hers, but my night of the soul was very similar. I am God’s downstairs neighbor, she wrote, banging on the ceiling with a broomstick . . . yes – yes, sister. So w...