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Showing posts from 2014

My Messy Christmas Wish

We're moving before Christmas. The idea of moving across country is daunting for anyone. How do you take 16 years of living and place it into four storage cubes? How do you tackle the list of to-dos, like cancelling utilities, switching insurance policies and disconnecting cable (when they make you say "no" five times before honoring your request)? How do you reduce ten boxes of precious school mementos to a "reasonable" three? How do you negotiate the purchase of another house while living hundreds of miles away? How do you fit in goodbyes to friends and neighbors? The planner in me is overwhelmed. I've taken on all kinds of jobs, big jobs, intimidating jobs, but this one...this one is huge. And then, I realized what the timing meant for me and for my family. We were scheduled to close on our house just before Christmas. That meant no going to the Christmas tree farm to cut down our tree. That meant no live evergreen wreath on the front door. No

White Roses and Paper Cranes: Symbols of Beauty and the Horror Within

Walking down the cobblestone streets of Salem, Mass., I was both intrigued and a bit spooked. In every other window, witch paraphernalia was displayed – ouija boards, spell candles, black cats. The Salem Witch Museum is in an old church with the glass windows lit in red. It is dusk and the perfect setting for my visit. Turning a corner, we walked by a historic home, graveyard and a group of tourists being led by a man dressed vaguely as a pilgrim. My friend tells me to look down. I see a row of stones, engraved with words in capital letters. Some of the stones are cracked. Yellow leaves obscure parts of the text. But I see phrases: “I am innocent” . . . She tells me these are the last words of the men and women hanged after being accused of witchcraft. It takes my breath away. When I look up, I notice a small courtyard – again surrounded by a stone wall. There are small stone platforms jutting out of the wall – about 20 of them – encircling the courtyard. I thought the

Renee Zellweger, Orual, and Me

Renee Zellweger’s face was all over the internet this week. She had plastic surgery that took away her signature chubby cheeks and ruddy complexion. She is still attractive. The only problem is that she no longer looks like the actress who charmed us in Jerry Maguire and Bridget Jone’s Diary . She is too perfect. We liked the old-version of Rene, flaws and all. I remember having a similar reaction when Jennifer Grey had a nose job following her roles in Ferris Bueller and Dirty Dancing . Her new nose was lovely – but she no longer looked like the same woman. I would stare at her photo and think, “Really!? Wow. What a difference a nose can make!” It was almost like the original Jennifer had disappeared, replaced by this new version without her distinctive personality. As much as I am shocked at the tendency of the rich and famous to erase their flaws, I admit I have a few that I would not mind erasing as well. For many years, I battled with being much too thin. I wasn’t

Farmville, Faith, and Fallen Sheep

A few years ago, McDonald’s created a promotional game targeted toward the reported millions of Americans who were playing the Facebook game FarmVille. The press release said, “Our mission is to connect the world through games by offering consumers meaningful experiences that enhance their game play. Tens of millions of people play FarmVille daily and this unique campaign with McDonald’s…further strengthens our commitment to delivering high quality in-game brand experiences.” Now, I must stop here and admit something. I was one of those millions. I once owned a farm on FarmVille. It started innocently enough. I was checking Facebook, and an update appeared on my wall. One of my friends had just expanded his farm. “What is that?” my daughter asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “Just a game some people play where you own a virtual farm.” “I want a farm,” she said. “Do it!” We made the fatal click. It started with a little patch of virtual land. I coul

In the Waiting Room - My GUEST POST on This Odd House

My friend and colleague, Kelli Worrall, has a beautiful blog titled This Odd House . It is a little bit about their beautiful Craftsman style home, but more about the people who live within it. Kelli tells the story of how they adopted their two children. She tells about growing up with parents suffering with disabilities. She writes about life and brokenness and hope with heartbreaking honesty.  This month, I have the joy of guesting on her blog. She is hosting a series about "waiting." The topic struck home because I am in that place. I am waiting and trying, desperately, to be patient. Lately, it feels like my life has been all about waiting. Our house has been up for sale for 90-plus days. We are waiting, hoping, praying for a buyer. About five years ago, we started to talk about moving from Indiana to Florida. The move could bring us closer to my husband’s brother and to my mom and her husband who had recently adopted the “snowbird” lifestyle. The decisi

The Secret to Being a Nerd

Certain activities belonged to “nerds” – and wanna-be-cool high schoolers avoided them like the plague. I was in the Marching Band – nerd heaven. Plus, I was skinny, wore braces, earned excellent grades, was hopeless at sports, and refused to break rules. Card-carrying nerd, for sure. But, as an insider nerd, I knew a secret. We were not all the same type of nerds. Even within marching band, people were not all one variety. Louise was a hard-core determined flute/piccolo player who wanted to gain a spot in a professional symphony. Smart and determined, she simply seemed focused. Our trumpet player was also a jazz aficionado. Brian wanted to look and sound like Chuck Mangione, so he was often seen sporting a fedora and carrying his flugel horn. At Thornwood High School, the theatre people were on the verge of nerd-dom, but some managed to be deemed socially acceptable. Certainly the Mathletes or Dungeons & Dragons Club were card-carrying members. The word “nerd

What Do You Want to Be When You Grow Up?

In junior high, my daughter was given career aptitude tests. They declared she would make a great pharmacist, an idea that repelled her. She wanted to be a fashion designer, an artist, not someone who studied medicine for years and then worked behind a counter distributing pills. At the Bible college where I teach, students are pushed to declare a major. They enroll as a Sports Ministry major or a Pastoral Studies major with an Intercultural Studies emphasis. Their career choices are interwoven with their Christian calling which adds even more pressure to the choice. Some students arrive their freshmen year with career goals oddly defined: I am called to work with orphans in Romania. Really!? How do you know? My own life’s ambitions have rolled out like a tattered carpet littered with failed dreams. I wanted to be a Bible translator in the 7 th grade. Yes, I know it is an odd career choice in junior high. But, I admired a missionary woman who had come to speak at our

Sorting Stuff and Those Copper-Coated Baby Shoes

The blue storage tub that was pushed way to the back of our cement-floored "sump pump" crawl space. It is hard to get back there, and a bit musty, so I don't venture very often. But, we are trying to sort through our piles of stuff in preparation for a move. It is time to get serious... We have been in our current home, in northwest Indiana, for almost 20 years. It is amazing how quickly that time has passed. As I tackle the monumental sort and salvage task, I am learning a great deal about my sentimental, pack rat tendencies. In this particular bin, I discovered yet one more box of baby things. My "baby" is now 16 years old, almost 17. I found a little pair of shoes, a tiny red sweatshirt with "Door County" embroidered on it. A slightly stained t-shirt from our trip to Cape Cod when my daughter was only six months old. There is the padded Bible and her mini, board version of Good Night Moon . In the same box was a copper-clad pair of shoes tur

Here is the Church: What My Children's Church Pastor Taught Me

When I was in grade school, a young couple, Rich and Cheri, were hired to pastor the youth at our little First Baptist Church. They were students at Chicago's Moody Bible Institute, and in exchange for housing, they served part-time at our church. As a part of their job, they would hold a children's church service every Sunday morning in our slightly mildewed church basement. I don't remember if we were dismissed from the adult service entirely or were sent down just before the sermon, I do remember that we loved it. The group of about 30 kids, kindergarten to 6th grade, would rush down the linoleum steps as quickly as we could to take our place in the rows of metal folding chairs. They were arranged like a mini-sanctuary with a wobbly wooden podium front and center, the upright piano pushed to the right. We were squirmy and energetic, a hum of nervous energy in ruffled bobby socks and clip-on neckties. Cheri would get us started with the singing. We had plenty of

Fannie Farmer and Victorian Cooking: A Book Giveaway!

I picked up this fabulous book, Fannie's Last Supper by Chris Kimball, and decided to host a book giveaway so you can love it too! If you are a foodie, a Downton Abbey fan, or just someone curious about what it was like to live in Victorian Boston, you are in for a treat (or, rather, a 12-course extravagant meal). Chris Kimball is a chef and magazine editor and owner of a Victorian era home in Boston. After researching the Boston Cooking School and Fannie Farmer, he decided to undertake the creation of a meal that perfectly replicated the common foods, cooking methods and style of turn-of-the-century urban America. He had help, of course, but cooked a beautiful meal on a wood-burning iron stove in a steaming hot kitchen - so hot that the chef's pants melted onto her legs. I thought this entire book was fascinating - and (for the truly adventurous) it includes recipes. They made a mock turtle soup which involved making stock from a calf's head. Calf's hooves w

Can You Wear a Pompadour to Church? Review of Adventures in Churchland

I can't believe I missed this book when it was first published! Adventures in Churchland tells the story of rockabilly drummer Dan Kimball and his search for Jesus through the harrowing world of the evangelical church. They were not prepared for him with his Doc Martens (and flashy yellow stitching) or his slicked back, 50s-pompadour style hair. He was even less prepared for evangelical worship songs that sound like Celine Dion and Christmas pageants where men wore bed sheets as costumes. I found myself chuckling and nodding out loud - and wincing more than once - as I read his account of an "outsider" approaching the church with honest questions. Dan has it right. It's not about what we think church "should" look like. It's about Jesus. He finds his way in through an 83-year-old man in London who gives him a cup of Ovaltine and invites him to meet the real Jesus. This is a book about Jesus and church and finding your way home. It is a boo

Selling Your House Without Losing Your Mind

This summer, our pool has decided it would prefer to be a lovely shade of green. Despite my best efforts, the pH-level has been bouncing all over the place. The bleach is often ineffective. It wouldn't be so bad, but we are trying to sell our house. Nobody wants to buy a home with a Kermit the frog, pea-green pool. My husband and I have been working like crazy to keep our home ship-shape. Now I'm not the neat-freak type, so (normally) I am quite happy if my house has only a light layer of dust. This summer, however, we have had to make it look like we live in a model home. Not easy with a dog, a teenager and an elderly mother-in-law. At our last showing, we spent an hour running around the house like crazy people - dusting, cleaning, and spritzing air freshener. I even plucked a few orange Tiger lilies and threw them in a cut-glass vase on the coffee table. The buyer walked in, took one look, and left in 3 minutes.Three minutes! He didn't walk through the hou

When Expectations Don't Fit

In my guest blogger series, I've asked some of my favorite bloggers to discuss one of the questions found at the end of my book,  When Others Shuddered: Eight Women Who Refused to Give Up .  Today's question is about Emma Dryer.  Women of Emma Dryer's day were expected to marry and devote their life to household work. What are the social expectations for women today? Are they different for Christian women? How has your life conformed to or gone against the expectations of society or the church? Enjoy this essay from my friend, Connie Mann. Connie and I first met in college. Now, she is a boat captain and fellow writer! Also, be sure to pick up a copy of her fiction novel, Angel Falls , an exotic adventure set in Brazil! I’ve spent a good bit of my life feeling like I escaped the island of misfit toys. As a little girl, I dressed the cat in my doll clothes and climbed the neighbor’s tree so I could read, uninterrupted. I wore my hair boy-short, but was mortifie

My Rockabilly Christian Life

Photo by the fabulous Jill Obermaier. Milt and I have been slightly obsessed with all things 50s for the past few years. Well, in all honesty, my vintage obsession goes back a bit further. Here, in this article for Christianity Today 's blog Her.meneutics, I share why my love for the past links to my faith. Enjoy!  My rockabilly friends hoard 1950s-era fiberglass lampshades and Formica-topped tables. They drive clunky, chrome-trimmed, gas-guzzling cars that have no seatbelts and sometimes leave them stranded on long trips. The guys sport gabardine suits and greased-back pompadours. The gals carry '50s Lucite purses and wear full-skirted dresses with armfuls of bangles. They swing their dance partners to thumping music played by tattooed upright bass players. Walking into these events, a retro dance or hot rod car show, it feels like traveling back in time. These 21st-century folks live and breathe the culture of the 1950s. Yet again, in our seemingly endless cycles

When Hospitality Hurts: Perfection and Frozen Pot Pies

In my guest blogger series, I've asked some of my favorite bloggers to discuss one of the questions found at the end of my book,  When Others Shuddered: Eight Women Who Refused to Give Up . Today's question is about Sarah Dunn Clarke. Thank you to these fellow writers for participating! Enjoy this essay from my colleague, friend, writer and fellow antiques enthusiast, Kelli Worrall.  Sarah Dunn Clarke was struck by God speaking to her, asking, “What are you doing to decorate your heavenly home?” In our culture, it is not uncommon for women to become obsessed with home décor and cooking. We exchange recipes and crafting ideas on Pinterest and other social media sites. How might our domestic obsessions limit our impact for God? Or can we use them for Him? I made my foray into the world of interior design when I was about four. My mom opened wide the wallpaper book, and I picked a pattern for my room. Pink and blue Holly Hobby dolls for three walls. A coordinating s

Why Worship Makes Me Sad

I should clarify my title. Worship itself, honoring the almighty God , has never made me sad. But, today's church service, congregational singing often does. In an age where we are putting more effort than ever into staging, multimedia, and expertly-coordinated worship bands, I fear we may have missed the point and lost something crucial: the beauty and joy of singing corporately in worship to our Savior. A series of events brought me to this conclusion. First, I attended the memorial service for a dear member of my childhood church, the parent of one of my best friends. Mr. Charles "Chuck" Aarup was a father and a working man - he repaired trucks, so you know he was big and strong. But despite his manly exterior, he was not a gruff man. He had a ready smile and friendly eyes that always gave me a wink. He led congregational singing at First Baptist Church in South Holland, not because he was the best singer, but because he knew how to stir up the crowd. We had