In Gennesaret

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. -     ...

  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...