In Gennesaret

 I’ve been legally divorced for just over a year. The actual process of divorce took almost a year as well, and the decision to divorce was weighing on me for another year before that. Three years, friends. Three years with about a million and a half decisions I had to make. Some of those decisions were immensely consequential (Is it time to file – am I sure I’m done?). Some were relatively trivial but still exhausting (Which dishes do I keep? Curtains in the bedroom or just blinds? Buy new socks or sew up the holes in the ones I have?). But the accumulation of choice after choice after stinkin’ choice made every choice on the table terribly difficult. By the end of 2020, I was so done. I was ready to fake insanity and let the state take care of me. Of course, all these decisions wouldn’t have been nearly as hard if I wasn’t so concerned with making the right decisions. Because I believed that there was always a right choice and a wrong choice – that God had one direction he w...

On a recent date night, my guy and I shared the stories of losing our parents. (Yes, I know – not exactly a cheery topic for courtship repartee. That’s one of the things about dating at this age. You’ve got several decades of life experiences to catch each other up on: the good, the sad, the hilarious, the embarrassing . . .) So yeah, we talked about people dying. And then the next morning, I woke up to one of my favorite weekly emails in my inbox – “The Word Before Work” by Jordan Raynor. I love this guy. He writes about having a spiritual perspective on our work, and this particular email was talking about . . . well, about dying. In short, sin has ensured that nobody will ever finish the work they envision completing in their lifetime. . . We will all die with unfinished symphonies. Our to-do lists will never be completed. There will always be a gap between what we can imagine accomplishing in this life and what we can actually get done. Unfinished symphonies . . . what a love...

I spent five Thursday nights this summer in an adult improvisation class at Crystal Sea Drama Company. Thank you, Mike Dannelly – it was a joy. I love watching improv, but God did NOT grace me with the gift of spontaneity. As fun as it looked, I was afraid I would suck at it. But being a drama teacher, it behooves me to have some basic knowledge of the art. So, I signed up for the class. And I learned so stinkin’ much. One of the basic concepts behind improvisation is the “Yes . . . And”. When someone on your team takes a story in one direction, you respond with “Yes,” and then continue in that direction with “And”. Actor A : Look! There’s a spaceship landing on our front lawn! Actor B : Yes . . . and I bet they’re bringing Uncle Larry back! Oh, friends . . . this is a concept we need to apply to life. To ALL the things. YES! – Folks, we need to look for what we can say yes to. Say yes whenever possible. This is true in parenting: “Yes, you can pick what you wear today – w...

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...