In Gennesaret

My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease when I was twelve (he was 57). He was diagnosed very early; a lot of people in our lives didn't even know for a long time, I don't think. But by the time I left for college, he was growing increasingly debilitated. Every time I came home for a summer break, I saw big declines in his functioning (in fact, family members would ask me how he was doing because for them, the decline was so gradual that they were sometimes not aware of the extent of the deterioration). The summer after my freshman year was his Puppy Dog season. Dad followed my mother around all day like a puppy dog. Always by her side. Always trying to be helpful but not sure what was going on or what to do. It was stunning to watch because my dad had always been The Man. He was a strong leader, in and out of the home. To watch him following my mother’s lead, literally tagging along at her heels minute by minute, was rather disconcerting. One day, on a hot weekday...

I’m doing the butterfly thing, y’all. It’s my Eastertide theme.  It started when I was trying to think of ways to make Easter more meaningful for myself, the way Christmas is . . . and I thought, decorations! I decorate the whole frickin’ house for a month and a half at Christmas (or at least I used to). What decorations can I put up for the seven weeks of Eastertide? No eggs, please. And no rabbits. For the love. I hit Google to find symbols for new life. Butterflies popped up on the list . . . and that one grabbed me. So, I got on Amazon and found some foil butterflies that I’ve put up all around my house – everywhere that my eyes happen to fall in the course of the day. (See the picture of one here on my microwave.) That’s been fun. But I decided to do more. When I was homeschooling my girls, we did the butterfly growing kit, where you get some caterpillars, watch them form cocoons, and then see them “hatch” into butterflies in a net-like cage. It was a great experience. ...

“. . . I want you to know that I think You’re cruel.” A character in the novel I’m reading with my 8 th graders says this. Here’s the kicker: he’s saying it to God. Read the full quote: I chose You, and I can’t alter that now, but I want You to know that I think You’re cruel, just like the farmer here and Carlo and all that belong to them. And I suppose You’ll never help me again, even if I do have some help still to come, because You’re tired of me. I’m sorry I didn’t choose a better God. Yep. That’s harsh. I asked my students if it made any of them feel uncomfortable. A couple meekly raised their hands . . . but I was confident they weren’t the only ones. My pastor talked about Thomas a couple weeks ago. The poor guy gets a bad rap. Yeah, he wasn’t there when Jesus came the first time. Yeah, he didn’t believe what the others were telling him. But you know, give the man credit for hanging around and being there for the second showing. He may have doubted, but he at least stay...

I’ve had a long acquaintance with ophthalmologists. I started wearing glasses in third grade, contacts in seventh grade. And for several years when I was young, I had to put drops in my eyes every night. It was explained to me that the muscles in the back of my eyes were tightening (something like that), and those drops relaxed them. One of the side effects of the medication was chronically dilated pupils, which meant my eyes were very sensitive to light. Case in point: a couple weeks after I first starting using the eye drops, I went to the pool. After paying at the desk in the shade, I stepped out into the sunlight again . . . and was immediately blinded. Literally. The world around me was a solid, painfully bright yellow with some vague brown outlines. I must have stood there for a while looking like an idiot because a friend eventually came and walked me in to sit down somewhere until my eyes adjusted a bit. This came to my mind again because on Easter, Pastor Garrett gave us ...

Yesterday was Easter, as you know. I woke up in time for early service, so I decided to get ready and go. Picked a nice dress (checked to make sure I’d shaved my legs recently). Had a Cadbury cream egg for breakfast (don’t judge me: this is the only time of year to enjoy Easter candy – at least it wasn’t the Robin Eggs or I’d have finished the whole bag). Did my hair and makeup and hopped in the Rogue. Of course, past years have involved getting out the Easter baskets for the girls and preparing a nice Easter dinner, as much as I do that kind of thing. But with my singleness and my empty nest, it was just me this time around, and that was fine. I was walking in the sanctuary just as the introit was playing, so I snuck in and sat quietly. There was a brass ensemble joining us – love those Sundays. The bulletin said our first hymn was “Christ the Lord is Risen Today”. Of course . . . and I was so glad. Randy gestured for us to stand as Daniel played the introduction . . . . . . and i...

During his radio broadcast on Friday, Alistair Begg (love him) brought up the fact that the gospel accounts of Jesus’ death don’t talk about the physical suffering he endured. And isn’t that interesting, folks? I mean, they mention that he was flogged, of course. They mention the crown of thorns and being struck on the head with a staff while being mocked. They mention that he was thirsty. But the final act of execution is generally tossed off with a simple unmodified clause: “They crucified him.” We can probably assume that the first readers of the accounts were familiar enough with what was involved in these heinous acts that detailed description was not necessary. However, in our times, we seem to obsess a bit about the physical suffering. I blogged last year about watching The Passion of the Christ . There we see the blood and gore and ripped skin and piercing nails and agonizing facial expressions in all their glory. It almost seems like we need the gory description these ...

On spring break last week, I watched this movie called Lars and the Real Girl . And I’ve been trying to decide if I liked it or not. Ryan Gosling plays Lars, a mentally ill man who buys a life-sized doll and believes she is his girlfriend. Yeah, it’s a bit disturbing – but it’s also pretty funny. It’s kind of remarkable how you can be so sad for this troubled man and still giggle so much at the situation. But what fascinates me most is the way his people embrace him through this. I mean, the whole town. The psychologist recommends to his family that they go along with the delusion for now; there is apparently a reason “Bianca” has shown up in Lars’ life, and they need to patiently wait for him to resolve that. So everyone – all of his friends, co-workers, neighbors, people at church – everyone pretends that Bianca is real and makes her a part of their community. They invite her to parties, get her involved in volunteer work . . . there’s even (spoiler alert) a funeral for her when ...