In Gennesaret

My guy tells me that it is “the writer’s gift and curse to redeem trouble with language.” Shall we test that concept? I had my first colonoscopy yesterday. Some moments and reflections: - Toilets need built-in entertainment stations for such a time as this. - I suspect that the cup (see photo) that they gave me to mix my Magic Drano Drink in was bewitched because I sipped and sipped and sipped at that crappy stuff, and it seemed multiply at my touch like the treasure in the vault at Gringott’s. Why is there so much of this . . .?!? - A snippet from a group text with some patient friends who listened to me complain all evening: Me: Will I get demerits if I don’t finish the whole drink? Diane: You really should follow their instructions. If your colon is not properly cleansed, you will have gone through this for nothing. Me: That’s the wrong answer. I thought you loved me. She doesn’t. Diane doesn’t love me. - On the positive side, I have rediscovered Jell-O. Cheap,...

I almost didn’t go to church today. There was a family retreat happening this weekend, so pretty much my whole Sunday School class was gone. I’m having a colonoscopy tomorrow (the joys of growing old), so I have all that jolly fun prep stuff going on, plus some other medical issues I don’t need to go into now. I mean, I could come up with all sorts of reasons NOT to go to church this morning. My guy told me recently that the typical regular church attender averages 2.5 Sundays per month these days. So, it’s really no big deal for me to miss once in a while, I suppose. I certainly do better than average. I think. Well, I know I used to. I grew up in one of THOSE Southern Baptist families, you know: if the church building was unlocked, we were in there. Sunday morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night, special events . . . we even hunted down a Southern Baptist church to attend when we were on vacation. It simply wasn’t an option to just NOT go to church on a Sunday morning unless you...

I just turned 54. That means I’ve played piano for forty years. Well, I’ve played piano for more than forty years . . . I would say I’ve been playing piano well for about forty years. Recitals and contests. Accompanying groups at school. Offertory specials at church. Lots and lots of playing piano. But a few years ago, when my earthquake hit, I stopped. Just wasn’t in the mood anymore. And then my music was stored away where I couldn’t get to it . . . and when I got it out, most of it was ruined (you can read about that here if you missed that drama). In any case, the few bits of music that survived I’ve been getting out and picking through again once in a while. And it’s kind of nice to be back at the ivories, but it’s also been frustrating. Because I’ve lost some of my touch. Really challenging songs that I used to nail, and really beautiful songs that I used to love, I’m stumbling through these days. And as I stumble, I imagine the days when I used to play them to great ac...

She was bent over and was quite unable to stand up straight. (Luke 13) So Jesus heals her . . . and of course, I know Luke is talking about a physical healing here. But that’s not where my mind went when Brother Mike read this scripture in the service last Sunday. Because the sentence before this one describes her as a woman with a spirit that had crippled her for eighteen years. And oh, friend – do I know women (and men) who are crippled by spirits . By spirits of INFERIORITY: “She’s so much better at this than I am . . . he should have this job instead of me . . . everyone knows I don’t belong here . . .” By spirits of INCOMPETENCE: “I keep messing up . . . I will never get this right . . . I have no idea what I’m doing . . . I am never good enough.” By spirits of INADEQUACY: “I’m not enough of a businessman to run this department . . .I’m not enough of a disciplinarian to raise my kids right . . . I’m not enough of a woman to make him happy . . . I am never enough .” Sp...

There was a ten-day period in 2006 when God and I were not on speaking terms. That is, I  was not speaking to God . I literally stood in front of my bathroom mirror every morning, looked at the ceiling, scowled angrily, and spat, "I am NOT talking to YOU today!!!" And by golly, I did not . I don't need to detail what was going on at the time that led me to this behavior -- it was big stuff. But I suspect most of you have had these moments, yes? Maybe not quite that level of anger, or for quite that length of duration, but yeah -- mad at God. If you haven't experienced that, you're lucky. Well . . . maybe you're lucky. Okay, actually, maybe not. Cuz here's the thing: I ultimately grew closer  to God through those ten days of angry pouting. This was the most real and honest I had ever been with him. This was the biggest chance I had ever taken with our relationship -- believing that I could intentionally walk away and he would still be there when I walked ba...

Thanks to my daughter doing . . . well, doing something, I have no idea what . . . I have been getting a Southern Living magazine with her name on it delivered to my house each month. For free. For nearly a year now, I think. Being a pretty thrifty woman (read: cheap ), I am generally not one to complain about anything given to me at no cost. But . . . Have you seen Southern Living magazine? Or one of its sisters (there is apparently a family of these periodicals including Midwest Living and Coastal Living )? My mother had a Southern Living subscription. It’s definitely a Wilma Poland kind of magazine. Full of beautiful pictures of beautiful places (and information for traveling there), beautiful homes with beautiful gardens (and how to recreate them), beautiful food on beautiful plates and tables (and the recipes for making it all), that kind of thing. When I get one of these magazines, I set it aside for a bit until I find a few minutes to thumb through it, and that’s the ex...

I have the most outrageously unrealistic goal for my life. Something I’ve noticed over the years that y’all may have noticed as well: old people tend to get mean. They say things to people that they would never have said aloud twenty, thirty, forty years ago. “Well, she sure ain’t the cook her mother was.” “Oh, that boy’s never had a lot of sense, you know.” “Are you still married to that weird guy with the ears that stick out?” This is particularly a problem if their hearing is going as well and they don’t realize how loudly they’re speaking at church when the organ suddenly stops playing and their voice is echoing from the baptistry to the AV booth. “Well, who the h-ll dressed the preacher this mornin’? Sakes alive, that’s a godawful tie . . .” Even my mother fell victim to this phenomenon . . . and people, my mother was just about the sweetest human being to walk the planet. In high school, one of my friends had a contest going with herself whenever she called my house and my ...