Category Archives: Other Stuff

Gained in Translation

“Thanks to you I have the goal of being someone good in this world.” So concludes the final letter from Alejandro*, and his words stop me.

I’ve been told I have influence—or rather, warned that I have influence. Better use it for good, they say. Watch yourself. Or, as the church-school song goes, “Oh be careful little tongue what you say… for the Father up above is looking down in love…” And I have been careful, which mostly feels like fear, anxiety, and judgement.

I’ve been told I have influence—but Alejandro’s words shocked me. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could inspire anyone to want to be good, and certainly not someone I’d never met in person.

In 2009, I was a few years married and worked full time at the Christian college from which I had recently graduated. That spring the student association hosted a concert by the Christian rock band, Superchick. It took place in the big dome at a neighboring college. While true fans moshed it up, I wished for earplugs from my seat on the bleachers. Somewhere in the course of the evening, the band made an appeal for child sponsors, and in the post-concert din and jostling, we managed to buy a CD and sponsor a child—Alejandro, from Bolivia.

For 14 years we exchanged letters with Alejandro, as he grew from a preschooler to a working man and graduated from Compassion International’s child sponsorship program at age 20. Early letters were written by Alejandro’s brother or his tutor. A letter in 2011 included this endearing anecdote: “It was a happy week for my family too because my brother was born and my mom was delicate so we couldn’t do anything for her birthday. She is better now and we are going to buy a cake for her. Alejandro helps me to wash the dishes because my mom is still delicate.” -signed by older brother Emilio.

Over the years we prayed for each other and shared favorite foods and the antics of our pets. One letter informed us that Alejandro’s pet goose had laid five eggs and was taking good care of them, and included an update on turkeys that had hatched some months before: “My mom likes them very much, she feeds them every moment.” Occasionally we’d make an extra monetary gift through the Compassion project, and a few months later we’d receive a picture showing what Alejandro bought with the money—clothing and shoes, “rubber dinosaurs,” a dresser for his clothes.

At first our letters traveled snail-mail between Bolivia and Washington state. Later, online letter-writing became available, but still it was a slow correspondence. I worried about asking the same questions or sharing the same information because I forgot what we covered in previous letters. I probably did forget things and repeat myself, but Alejandro responded to every letter with only the kindest words, and patiently answered our questions.

In 2023, Alejandro aged out of Compassion International’s sponsorship program and we each wrote a letter of farewell. His letter begins, “My dear friends Michael, Tobi, Kyli and Kayt, let me greet you, I am so grateful for all the time you were my friends and I was blessed with your sponsorship. Truly God touched your lives and through you He touched mine and my family’s. I am so grateful. You were really an unconditional support for so long, words would not be enough to show you how much I love and appreciate you.”

I am immediately touched, and simultaneously aware that these kind words register on a grand scale almost foreign to my daily narrative—God reaching through me to touch another, the elusive desire of every God-lover. “Unconditional” is not a word I would use to describe myself, but there it is. I choose to receive it.

Alejandro goes on to describe how the Compassion project helped him and his family, concluding “but above all, I received the word of God in my life, I was able to know Jesus, and I was able to understand that my life was better if I held His hand.” One sentence, profound gospel. My life was better if I held His hand.

Alejandro requested our continued prayers for guidance and for his family, and promised to pray for us: “I will pray that God will always bless you, that God will grant you the desires of your heart, that God will guide you well in everything you do, that God will keep you from all evil, and that you will now be able to continue blessing more lives as you did with me during all this time.”

Then he concluded, “Now, with a happy heart, for having completed the Compassion program, but also a little sad because I will no longer be in touch with you, I really feel you as part of my family, I will always have you in my heart my dear friends. Thanks to you I have the goal of being someone good in this world. God bless you always, your friend forever, Alejandro.”

It has been said some things are lost in translation, but, if anything, I’d say translation lent this final letter a beautiful simplicity. Alejandro’s translated words rank among the best prose I’ve read. They are high praise yet totally devoid of flattery. His gentle and grateful heart reminds me who I am—a daughter of God who does’t have to worry or hustle. I am blessed and I am a blessing—this is the sum of my existence. Alejandro, thanks to you I have the goal of being someone good in this world. I want to live up to your estimation of me. God bless you always.

*Not his real name.

Julia, It’s either You or Me

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Julia Cameron possesses the rare talent of crafting an instructional book that is a treat to read, an invitation to be seen, and a storehouse of insight and wisdom. But I’m not happy with her right now. With some friends, I’m going through her book, The Artist’s Way. And it’s fun—the reading, our group dynamic, the exercises. Under her tutelage I’m learning to date my inner artist, a practice designed to fill my creative well.

I’m not mad at Julia about these Artist Dates. Or about the fact that I seem to have less creative flow since starting The Artist’s Way coursework. It’s probably hormones or the time of year or the other things on my calendar. Or maybe I’m just too contented to write. I like most of what’s on my schedule, and since I don’t fight against myself all the time any more, the emotional atmosphere in my life is pretty calm. In any case, I can’t put Julia on the hook for my stagnant writing.

It’s Morning Pages I’m mad about—three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing every morning. Julia swears they will change your life. Morning Pages—along with Artist Dates—are Julia’s favorite tools for recovering creativity. They are “a loving witness to our growth process,” a form of meditation, a journey inside. “We find our own quiet center,” she writes, “the place where we hear the still, small voice that is at once our creator’s and our own.” I think I know exactly what she’s talking about. I’ve been journaling with God for decades. I found my quiet center. I love to sit with my Creator and a pen and see what happens, or to hash out on paper a nagging question, perplexing circumstance, or angry diatribe. On the page, in communion with the Spirit, I have found myself and have discovered with some surprise that I like myself.

Julia takes care to point out that many people have resistance to Morning Pages, but two months ago I just knew that would not be me. What could be better than starting the day with three pages of stream-of-consciousness writing? Well, after nearly two months of writing (almost) daily, I can think of at least three things: snuggling in bed with my warm husband a little longer, sitting with God and watching the sunrise, or spending time with whichever daughter awakens early.

As is often the case, the thing I thought would be hard (Artist Dates) slipped into my life like a new and delightful friend, and what I thought would be easy (Morning Pages) is causing considerable discomfort. I try to wrestle it into submission by reminding myself that it is a perfect fit for me. I totally look great in this outfit. But after weeks of early-morning writing in which I have discovered next to nothing about myself, except that I’m chafing at this requirement, I must admit Morning Pages are not a perfect fit. I don’t want to record random thoughts. I want to finish a thought. I don’t want to write fragments and ramblings. I don’t want to lose valuable insights in pages of jibber-jabber.

Besides, my “consciousness” seems to be a bit of a worrier. Following it around for three pages is more stressful than sitting in silence, practicing gratitude, or praying for friends. Perhaps those things are allowable for Morning Pages and I’m just getting this all wrong. But stream-of-conscious, to me, doesn’t sound like directed thoughts and meditations. And I’m not supposed to pause. Keep writing, bypass the left brain, or some crap like that.

I don’t like to admit it, but I don’t like being told what to do. The rule-follower in me really wants to cross every “t” and dot every “i,” so doing what I’m told can be excruciating. It takes a lot of energy to get things right. If you’re going to tell me what to do, you better know what you’re talking about and the payoff better be good, because I’m not self-actualized enough to put in a proper (balanced) amount of effort. And once I over-blow my efforts, I expect an equally overblown result. I’m not about to spend hours every week writing a bunch of gibberish because you, Julia, say it’s the best thing since sliced bread.

Take that.

I’m not very good at agency yet, so I make up for it by pushing back on everyone who wants something from me. I live in the tension of hoarding my time and emotions out of fear, and giving them too freely, also out of fear. This is not Julia’s fault. She has simply made a request and I can’t handle requests. Isn’t every request an obligation? And if it’s not—if this whole course is actually about helpful tools and creative recovery—then how do I know whether to force myself to do Morning Pages? Do I choose them because my resistance needs to be seen but not given charge? Or do I choose not to do them because I gave it an honest try and found I already have practices in place that work better for me? Is that prideful? Rebellious? Naive? How could I know more than Julia Cameron?

I’m stuck. And stuck makes me angry. And anger makes me want a “bad guy,” which in this case is either me or Julia. Who’s it gonna be?

Sigh.

There is no bad guy.

There is no right answer.

Morning Pages could be helpful today or next year or never. It could be unhelpful in winter or while I’m content in life, or forever. I hate that. How does ambiguity manage to be such heart-wrenching torture, and simultaneously an elegant freedom? I am free to choose. I can decide to write Morning Pages when I don’t feel like it. Or I can not write them at all. Or I can try one page, or evening pages, or weekend pages. Who decided to give me this much power?

Some say it’s God, the only One crazy enough to hand out freedom-of-choice like candy. The rest of us know that some amount of control is the only thing keeping us humans washing our hands before we eat, and stopping us from eating each other alive. But maybe I’ll go with God on this one. I don’t have to fight with Julia, or Morning Pages, or even with myself. I can decide. Then I can change my mind and try something else next week. There’s not much at stake here. Maybe the best part of Morning Pages is learning that life is not graded, but lived.

Everything Is Well but Not Okay

From Pink Leather to Diversity

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I cannot imagine the “Urgent need for Bibles” depicted on my social media feed and in letters from charities. I don’t know the hunger for Scripture that thousands have felt in prison, in remote villages, in countries hostile to Christianity. I have more Bibles than I want, and only need visit a book store or sit in a church pew to access even more.

Over the years, I’ve accumulated seven or eight Bibles, including a small pink New Testament with Psalms, a Seminars Unlimited Edition KJV (free for everyone who attended a Revelation Seminar series—hallmark of the Seventh-Day-Adventist Church), and the bright, almost-holographic NIV children’s Bible I earned by memorizing the books of the Bible. I’m still proud that I can recite the minor prophets in order.

During my high school years I bought a metal-covered NLT Bible with a magnetic clasp, and a Spanish/English NIV. In Senior Bible class, each student chose a new-to-us style or version of the Bible. I picked the Serendipity Bible, designed with questions and study helps in the margins for group discussion. Lover of small groups that I am, I thought—and still think—it’s brilliant. But I’ve hardly used it.

The only Bible I truly loved came to me in its pink leather cover on my ninth birthday. As I wrote in last week’s post, I read it all the way through that year, and over the next ten years it became like a fifth appendage. When I flip through it now, I find a quarter-sheet of paper with notes for a worship talk to the student body at my high school, and another with multiple-choice options, showing a checkmark beside the statement, “I rededicate my life to Christ today.”

I still get a feeling of companionship when I turn the pages of my pink Bible, but it’s connected to life before I moved away from home. I must have taken that Bible to church during my college years, but memories are vague. Did I have morning “quiet time”? I can’t remember. By the time I graduated from college, the focus of my small groups had moved away from Bible study and toward facilitating safe spaces for personal growth. The women in my life wanted to be heard, and so did I.

Two years after I graduated from college—and fifteen years after my parents gave me the pink Bible—my college-boyfriend-turned-husband gave me a burgundy NKJV Remnant Study Bible with my married name embossed on the front, in silver. Pink Bible retired to the Bible shelf, safe in a pleather case. But I never really moved in to my new Bible. Only a handful of verses are highlighted or underlined and no papers are tucked between the thin pages.

I can’t help but wonder if I loved the Bible as a book in its own right, or if I only loved that Bible. The pink Bible meant purpose, connection, expertise. Perhaps it filled the role of a cup of coffee or alcohol—to buffer social spaces. During my 20’s, as the years filled with grown-up responsibilities, the Bible settled down along with the rest of my life. The excitement of spiritual leadership, learning to drive, falling in love, and working a dozen different student jobs during my late teens and early 20’s turned into the predictability of a dual-income home. I rose at 5:40am for quiet time, and prayed through Stormie Omartian’s The Power of a Praying Wife at least twice. I read the Bible and journaled and expected life to continue in much the same way. The Bible was habit—was that all?

By the time I turned thirty, we’d added two babies to the family. Prayer journaling ceased during the years of babies and young children, and at the same time my confidence in God and Scripture took a beating. As I fought for sleep and struggled to maintain a shred of self-worth, my youthful confidence gave in to confusion, anger—and curiosity. I wrestled with God and mostly left the Bible out of it. An aching emptiness took hold of me, and the Bible’s companionship didn’t comfort. I read other books and prayed and went to counseling. Half a dozen agonizing years later I emerged with a different confidence and a different companion. My confidence resembled the flowing water of a mountain stream more than the steadfast rocks at its bottom. My new companion emerged as a sense of spiritual belonging and safety with myself and with the divine.

My “faith,” or whatever you want to name the relationship I have with myself and with the divine, is safe, flexible, curious, gentle. I have little interest in church doctrine, and equally slight interest in church pews. The occasional sermon I’m obliged to hear tends to raise my hackles. But I may be closer than I’ve ever been to possessing something I want to share. And it’s not a Bible study.

These days I’m timid with the Bible. When I want to find a verse, it’s faster to google a key phrase than open my Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible, or—if I know the reference—I type it in BibleGateway and select the version I like best. My burgundy Bible sits on my writing desk more as a prop than a friend, and my pink Bible remains in the bookshelf.

Rachel Held Evans, in her book Faith Unraveled, takes readers along with her on the journey promised in the subtitle: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask Questions. Her Bible, like mine, absorbed a nontrivial portion of her time and energy as a teen. Unlike me, she started to ask questions, and learned that all questions do not have clean, three-point answers. Over time she found a different way to approach the Bible:

“As much as I struggle with the things I don’t like about the Bible—the apparent contradictions, the competing interpretations, the troubling passages—I’m beginning to think that God allows these tensions to exist for a reason. Perhaps our love for the Bible should be measured not by how valiantly we fight to convince others of our interpretations but by how diligently we work to preserve a diversity of opinion.”
Faith Unraveled, pg. 194

Diversity of opinion sounds terribly healthy. Am I that healthy? How comfortable am I, listening to another person share—from the Bible—a theological view different from mine? Will I allow them the certainty that irks me? On the other hand, am I able to hear doubts and questions without offering a solution? Can I experience spiritual intimacy with the people I disagree with, or only with those who have the same interpretations and “aha” moments that I do?

I’ve avoided the Bible for years now because when I pick it up and begin to read, I’m often thrown back into black-and-white thinking. Scripture is not a place of curiosity for me, but a textbook with answers. It’s hard to come back to a text I poured my life into as a teen, with a different view of myself and the world. We don’t fit together like we used to. But Rachel Held Evans gives me permission to try a more nuanced, messy relationship with my Bible. I haven’t picked it up yet, but I might. When I do, I want to look for diversity and contradiction, and practice making friends with the parts that are uncomfortable. I would like the Bible to be an irritating friend—by turns funny, exasperating, wise, sometimes a gentle companion and other times giver of good advice I’d rather not hear. I want it to remind me there are more questions than answers, and that what we write about God is as oddly erratic as what we write about humans. Maybe, in a year or ten, I will again be friends with a Bible. I don’t know what color the cover will be, but the inside won’t be black and white. It will be grey and rainbow.

Bible Sidekick

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When I was eight years old, I signed a baptismal certificate, and Pastor Bryson baptized me into the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. I remember practicing how to hold his arm while he held the dry washcloth over my face, so I could go under without breathing in water.

Six months later, for my ninth birthday, my parents purchased a Bible from the Christian book store, where they had my name embossed on the cover. They let me choose the embossing color—rainbow shimmer—but they kept the Bible out of sight. I used to wish I had chosen plain silver embossing, to please the adults and to match my tastes as I grew older. But at eight-going-on-nine, I wanted rainbow shimmer.

I was allowed to invite one family to our home for my birthday celebration each year, and for my ninth birthday I invited Laura and Eric. They were the only people I knew in their early 20’s, and I admired them as only a nine-year-old can. Laura had dark brown hair with one curly spot in the back where her previously-straight hair grew back in a curl after a diving accident. She had a petite frame, and a lovely accent from spending a year in Latvia. Eric was tall, with long everything—legs, arms, torso—and a wide, impish-yet-innocent smile.

I don’t remember much about my ninth birthday. Pictures remind me that I dressed up in elegant old skirts from our dress-up stash. Laura and Eric gave me a miniature rose plant, and my parents gave me the Bible—a red letter edition NKJV with a pink, bonded-leather cover.

I read the Bible cover to cover that year. I read about creation and Abraham and Moses, the cut-up concubine, prostitution and murder, lying and rape, greed and gratuitous violence. I read about Ruth and Esther, the Song of Songs, and somehow made it through Lamentations and the major and minor prophets. I read the shocking story of Jesus’ beginnings and the shocking story of His death, and through the exhortations of the apostles, all the way to the “Amen” at the end of Revelation chapter 22, verse 21.

I don’t recall having any questions, registering any shock at the violence, or finding any difference between the God portrayed in the Old Testament and the God portrayed in the New Testament. It was the Bible. I assumed it was all okay to read, and unnecessary to question.

By the time I completed 8^th grade, I could find any Scripture reference in 30 seconds or less. My pink Bible accompanied me for the livestream of Dwight Nelson’s Net ‘98 evangelistic series, and Mark Finley’s Net ‘99 evangelistic series, both projected on the big screen in my home church. I began a lifelong habit of morning prayer-journaling after Net ‘98, the year I turned 13. In the front of my Bible I glued a handwritten copy of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” and a variety of Bible “study helps” I never used. With The Marked Word study guide as my starting point, and armed with half a dozen pastel-colored gel pens, I underlined more than 30 chain studies.

After homeschooling basically forever, I attended Milo Adventist Academy (MAA) for 11^th and 12^th grades. Our family lived in the small southern-Oregon community where MAA occupies a slope beside the South Umpqua River, so as a high school student I attended the same church I’d been attending since I was born. As a student at MAA I served in almost every spiritual leadership position available. I was a group facilitator at a youth Bible conference, Spiritual Disciplines small-group leader, Junior Class Spiritual Vice President, and Student Association Spiritual Vice President. For a school talent show, I memorized and recited Psalm 139 and won a cash prize.

The summers I was 16 and 17 years old, I spent away from home, selling religious books and vegetarian cookbooks door to door with a Seventh-Day Adventist group called Oregon Youth Challenge. We led church services on weekends and Bible studies some weeknights, and my pink Bible and I took a tour of the SDA churches around Gresham, Oregon and Vancouver, Washington, while book sales helped fund my private school tuition.

Wherever I went, throughout my teen years that well-marked Bible was like a fifth appendage. When the youth leader said, “Hold up your swords!” my “sword” was always handy. I was well-prepared to fight with that sword, but I never did.

I don’t recall interacting with anyone who was interested in the Bible from a curious, unknowing space. Everyone I knew was either a “nominal Christian,” bumping along in apathy, or they were doing the same things I was, memorizing and marking Bible studies and verses that reinforced Adventist doctrine. Books I read and pastors I met told stories about meeting someone who was “hungry for the truth,” but I didn’t see or experience this firsthand.

Despite swallowing the Bible hook-line-and-sinker, even in high school I couldn’t imagine sharing the “plan of salvation,” telling someone they’re a sinner in need of saving. Although I soaked in Scripture and prayer, I didn’t feel any urgency to share my experience as a Christian. I sat squarely in the middle of an us-vs-them mindset, but the act of inviting a “them” to join “us” was far from my desire and far from my experience.

The Bible, I think, was something for me to be good at. I “knew” my Bible. I could find any verse in a few blinks of the eye, ask thoughtful questions (within accepted norms), and share my observations and opinions. I can’t imagine not having the Bible at that time in my life. I read it, marked it, loved it.

When I packed my room and drove eight hours to move into a college dormitory, I had no idea what was ahead for me and my Bible.

Read the next part of the story on February 7.

Twenty Years in Love

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I remember only bits and pieces. A small, formal couch with burgundy upholstery and a rounded back. Our clothes still shedding cold air from the winter chill. Michael’s tan coat, puffy in a way that rounded his lean figure. The Boyd’s Bear he hid in that coat.

Michael was a junior in college, double-majoring in mathematics and computer science. I was a first-year student pursuing an associate degree in accounting. Michael lived at home; I lived in the dorm. I attended required worships and ate in the cafeteria; he didn’t attend evening worships and his mom still cooked his dinner most nights. Our paths didn’t cross.

Until mutual friends set us up on a blind date—a story for another time. He waited two or three months to ask me out again, to his sister’s New Year’s party. In the meantime, we got acquainted on Instant Messenger. At some point, I confessed my interest in him on a couch in the church youth room. Come to think of it, couches are kind of a thing for us. He asked me to be his girlfriend on a couch, and our first kiss was also on a couch. Anyway, after discovering our mutual interest in each other and going to the New Year’s party, what was next?

Could we formally-informally get to know each other? We decided we’d find times to meet on campus and talk—not formal dates, but an intentional time to get acquainted. At least that’s what I thought. I don’t remember who arrived at our meeting point first—third floor of Kretschmar Hall. Fancy, uncomfortable-looking furniture dressed up the wide space in the hall outside the president’s office. Administrators had gone home for the day and it was quiet.

I don’t remember what I was wearing or what I was thinking. Michael wore blue jeans, a t-shirt, and that tan coat. Maybe I remember the coat because of all the time we spent together that winter, or maybe I remember it because on this day Michael reached inside it and pulled out a teddy bear. “I’d be honored if you would be my girlfriend,” he said, holding it out to me. The teddy bear held a plush heart with an embroidered message, “You stole my heart.”

If I’d known then what I know now, I would’ve grabbed that bear, squeezed it tight against my heart and jumped onto Michael’s lap. Grinning a big yes, I’d have squeezed him, tucking my nose under his ear. But, as I didn’t know him yet, I didn’t give him an answer. I accepted the bear and told him I wanted to pray about it.

If we began dating, he would be my first boyfriend. I’d fastidiously avoided dating in high school—you know, I-kissed-dating-goodbye and all that purity culture stuff. I had been in college only a few months, and other than our blind date, had been on only one other date—and a couple times guys bought me a burger or ice cream. In other words, this was a big deal.

I don’t remember how long we talked, or how long I made him wait for my answer. I prayed about it during Tuesday evening worship in Heubach chapel, an intimate sanctuary across a breezeway from the imposing College Church. It was simple—write your student ID on the leader’s clipboard, pick a pew in the nearly-dark chapel, and sing, or listen to the singing.

So there I sat, near the back, in a sanctuary of song, asking God what She thought of me dating Michael. She didn’t have much to say. In fact, He said nothing. But I took the quiet peace in my heart as a green light. I’m guessing I didn’t waste much time letting Michael know my answer. I’m not exactly sure he asked me on the 21^st, but we’ve been telling it that way for as long as I can remember, which makes today just a few a days past the twenty-year anniversary of our first yes.

I phoned my parents with the news and they developed a sudden, intense interest to come visit—an interest that had never occurred before and never occurred again. After all the parents met each other and nothing exploded, we launched into dating with a surprising amount of devotion, insecurity, and delight. Michael was my first and last boyfriend, and I feel for him, being the only one to iron out my wrinkles all these years.

Not that he didn’t have any wrinkles. The first time he took me to his house, he asked me to wait in the living room while he took a broom and dustpan to his room. I’m pretty sure that dustpan was brimming after a hasty sweep. Twenty years later we’re still ironing out each other’s wrinkles, but perhaps more importantly we’ve learned to live with wrinkles. Our foibles have just a bit of charm when we remember to laugh about them.

It’s strange after twenty years of togetherness and eighteen and a half years of marriage to revisit the moment on the couch, the simplicity, the significance. Nobody knows exactly what they’re signing up for with a yes to love. And I say yes again today with equally sparse knowledge about the next twenty years.

But this I know: Michael, I am honored to be your girlfriend, best friend, wife, parenting partner, and annoying roommate. Thank you for asking. Thank you for countless opportunities to say yes to love.

What Is Kinship?

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This morning I’m sitting in a favorite coffee shop as I write. Country music plays a little louder than I’d like from a speaker above, but quiet enough that I can overhear conversation. Two men in their seventies talk about therapy, travel plans, searching for a church that fits, and learning to support a recently-divorced family member. These men share themselves, hear each other, and speak encouragement. This, I think, is kinship.

I’m on a quest to learn about kinship. A google search provides this uninspiring two-word definition: blood relationship. But kinship can be so much bigger than that, a new way to see myself and others, a way that assumes value and connection. In kinship we are all on the same side of the line, rendering divides impotent. No “them,” only “us,” as Father Boyle would say. Only us.

Kinship has been slow-coming in my life. I grew up in a home where social time was considered a waste of time. If it wasn’t an event—like a birthday party or a hike to the lake—socializing didn’t happen. Although I’d like to blame my family and upbringing for my struggle to settle into friendship—I lived in a tiny community and was homeschooled through tenth grade—I’ve discovered my fears are not unique. Many women feel a lack of intimacy, and fear they don’t know how to participate in friendship. And, of course, each of us thinks other women have it figured out.

Every year I make a photo book commemorating our previous year. That may sound very organized, but it’s actually quite haphazard. Recently, I’ve been sorting through pictures from the last two years. As I put photos into categories and months—pets, school, March, November—a new category emerged: fun with girlfriends. These photo books will be the first to include a friendship photo spread—pictures of lunches out, movie nights, birthday coffee dates, pottery painting, and shopping fun. Looking at them, I feel connected, grateful, and not at all sure how it happened. I used to “do” friendship; now I enjoy friendship. I wish I could tell you five steps from lonely and anxious to connected and content, but, at least for me, it has been more mystical than methodical.

For most of my adult life I have compensated for lack of friendship by joining or creating small groups. A ladies group is my happy place. Crafts, Bible study, accountability, book-reading—it doesn’t matter. The structure provides a place for me to show up, participate in the mutual honoring of each other with our time, and complete the prescribed activity. Slowly I have ventured into one-on-one time with a handful of girlfriends, and casual activities together, like shopping. My circles of belonging widen.

The terror and the joy of intimacy with friends cannot be understated. Could one text or one misunderstanding upset it all and leave me in pain? Yes, it could. But in these relationships, do I feel seen, known, and safe? Do I invite these women into my home when I haven’t mopped the kitchen floor for three months, or done the dishes for three days? Yes, I do. Do I text them when I’m discouraged and take them coffee when I have a free morning? I do. Is it still scary, and do I have social anxiety? You bet.

Intimate relationships cannot be wrangled. It is a fools errand, seeking to avoid anxiety or relational fallout. Instead, I will allow anxiety and fear of intimacy to remind me that I am not impermeable. I am not above pain and misunderstanding. And this capacity for pain, this vulnerability, is what allows me life-giving connection, the joy of belonging, and the wonder of holding safe space for another person. This is the magic of being human.

Stories about men and women who stand in the gaps, go to the margins, hold hands with the desperate—these are my favorite. I want to be the hero in every story—the woman who taught homeless children, the man who endured exhausting legal battles to free wrongly-incarcerated men and women, the writer who teaches veterans to tell their stories, and the 22-year-old who adopted more than a dozen impoverished children.

At the same time, I don’t want to get anywhere near such unpredictable, messy situations. Can you imagine teaching at a homeless shelter, where traumatized children are in your classroom for 90 days or less? What about working long hours as a lawyer, toiling for years to see one ruling overturned, more years to find out it’s too late, the execution is scheduled. That may be charity, but it’s also insanity. How much could I handle?

There is tension between my relentless desire to love, and the ever-present awareness and fear of my limitations. I don’t know what’s coming for me in life, but I know I want to rise to the occasion and choose real love over false safety. I’m grateful for the thousands who have done this before me, proving it is possible and powerful. I watch the nonprofits in my hometown of Walla Walla, Washington, as they construct shelters for homeless, hold hands with the formerly incarcerated, provide dental services, food and clothing, love and dignity. I want to be part of that.

Children’s Home Society,* a local charity that works tirelessly to keep families together through in-home visits and a score of other services, has discovered the power of kinship—linking arms with the marginalized and misunderstood. Each year at their fundraising luncheon, one of their clients gives a keynote presentation, a story of their move from the thinness of broken family, addiction, and poverty, to a wholeness they didn’t know was possible. These people, unlike many of the donors in the room, haven’t been able to keep their lives “together” and show the polished side to society. But for that very reason, their stories are potent with hope. Every person in the room feels the energy of kinship. Hearts beat faster. Smiles appear. Applause is loud and long. Every one of us loves stories of redemption, and kinship is the catalyst for redemption.

Jesus born in a barn is kinship. He grew up to touch the untouchables, teach the stubborn, and include the rejected. He forever found beauty in ashes, wholeness in tragedy, and life in death. He defied categories, sweeping them into a circle and inviting them to hold hands, mix together like a delicious, forbidden stew. With a twinkle in His eye, He invites me into spaces where the ground is dry and barren. He invites me to bring kinship—the first drop of rain.

*Children’s Home Society is in the process of re-branding as Akin. I love this short-and-sweet name that includes the concept of kinship—the earth-shaking power of standing at the margins and holding hands.

Books I Read in 2023

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I read over 30 books in 2023. I’d like to think I choose what I read. But, as with many facets of life, the people I know—and whatever version of fate I ascribe to—play a large part. Last year I picked up nine books at a Writing For Your Life conference—none of which I would have read otherwise. Several were written by authors at the conference, others lay piled on a “free” table in the foyer, and another—Grace Notes—was a not-yet-published manuscript. The author and fellow conference attendee, Cheyenne Wilbur, agreed to let me try my copyediting skills on his book. Grace Notes was the only work of fiction I read last year. With no forethought or planning, I gravitated toward nonfiction.

In 2023 I read at least ten books recommended by friends and family—ranging from depression-era stories to books on writing. I selected books for a dozen reasons I know, and probably a score more subconscious reasons. I chose because of the author’s name—Richard Rohr, Rachel Held Evans, Anne Lamott; or because of the title—Intersexion: A Story of Faith, Identity, and Authenticity; or because I wanted to learn more about mysticism—The Big book of Christian Mysticism, and Wild Mercy. Some books, unread on my shelf since high school, had to be read or sent to the thrift store, making room for more recent acquisitions.

Eleven books by authors I know, or have connected with in some way, appear on my reading list. I treasure each of these connections, and find myself astonished by the quantity of people who write bravely, skillfully, and often while also attending to other full-time commitments.

A nurse and author of several books, Susan L. Schoenbeck, introduced herself to me on LinkedIn because of a mutual connection. Her experience—both personally and professionally—with near-death experiences piqued my interest and I purchased her self-published book Heaven and Angels.

My friend and cousin-in-law, Clair Gabriel, embraced her creative-writing skills and published a book on Amazon: Pregnancy, Birth, and Oh, Baby! It’s a quick and encouraging read, both important traits for a target audience of young mothers.

At the year’s end, I absorbed one last book, written by the former pastor of my childhood home church, Carl Wilkens. The book is titled I’m not leaving., with this singular statement on the cover: “Rwanda through the eyes of the only American to remain in the country through the 1994 genocide.” It was a thought-provoking read, ripe with unanswerable questions and the traits that empower a person to navigate such answerless queries and harrowing circumstances: love and connection.

Books by authors I met at the Writing For Your Life conference:

The Hundred Story Home: A Memoir About Finding Faith in Ourselves and Something Bigger, by Kathy Izard
Grace Notes, by John Cheyenne Wilbur
My First White Friend: Confessions on Race, Love, and Forgiveness, by Patricia Raybon
The Big Book of Christian Mysticism: The Essential Guide to Contemplative Spirituality, by Carl McColman
unbelieve: poems on the journey to becoming a heretic, by Marla Taviano

Books by authors in the Christian writing critique group I attend:

Surviving the Sand: My Family’s Struggle to Farm the Pasco Desert, by Helen Lingscheit Heavirland
Life Aboard a Sinking Ship: Mishaps and Mayhem on a Navy Tugboat, by Lee Yates as told to Blanche Yates
Building the Columbia River Highway: They Said It Couldn’t Be Done, by Peg Willis

Until last year, children’s books comprised nearly all my reading of poetry. Think Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. When I started writing poems, I knew I needed to overcome my fear of poetry that isn’t illustrated and in large print. My sister helped by recommending several poets, and I read five books of poetry—including a compilation containing three of my poems, and the above-mentioned book by Marlia Taviano.

Swallow’s Nest: Poetry Journal, Fourth Annual Issue—December 2022, compiled by Linda L. Kruschke for Oregon Christian Writers
To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, by John O’Donohue
Stripped, by Cara Alwill Leyba
Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver, by Mary Oliver

My reading last year included only one or two books from the self-help genre. I’d like to think this is because my mental and emotional health are improving. Or maybe I have that backward, and my mental and emotional health are improving because I’m not reading so many self-help books. Instead, I read more stories. There must be a technical term other than “story”—I’m sure “memoir” would apply to some—but to me these books are lovely because they are stories. The authors don’t tell me what to think. Rather, they invite me into their experiences. A good story is an offer of intimacy, a passageway to the inner workings of another human being and the wildness of their story. In addition to half a dozen of the above-listed books by authors I know, here are the stories I read last year.

Julie & Julia, by Julie Powell
Growing Up, by Russell Baker
Once Upon an Island: The Adventures of a Young Couple Who Did Buy Their Dream Island, by David Conover
I Went to the Woods: The Adventures of a Bird Photographer, by Ronald Austing
Faith Unraveled: How a Girl Who Knew All the Answers Learned to Ask Questions, by Rachel Held Evans
Intersexion: A Story of Faith, Identity, and Authenticity, by Cynthia Vacca Davis
The Face of Addiction: Stories of Loss and Recovery, by Joshua Lawson
Sealed: An Unexpected Journey Into the Heart of Grace, by Katie Langston
Love Warrior: A Memoir, by Glennon Doyle
Birding Against All Odds, by Joan Easton Lentz

Every one of the spiritual books I read felt like friendship. These books saw my heart and spoke both things I knew and things I didn’t yet know. They pushed me to try new things, think new thoughts, ask new questions. God and spirituality captivate me in a way nothing else does. I underline, write down page numbers, read aloud to my husband, and text paragraphs to friends. Although this happens with other books as well, it is spiritual books that most often invite me home, to a profound sense of belonging.

How the Light Gets In: Writing as a Spiritual Practice, by Pat Schneider
Attached to God: A Practical Guide to Deeper Spiritual Experience, by Krispin Mayfield
Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace, by Anne Lamott
The Tao of Pooh: The Principles of Taoism Demonstrated by Winnie the Pooh, by Benjamin Hoff
False Intimacy: Understanding the Struggle of Sexual Addiction, by Dr. Harry W. Schaumburg
Wild Mercy: Living the Fierce and Tender Wisdom of the Women Mystics, by Mirabai Starr
Forgive Everyone Everything, by Gregory Boyle, art by Fabian Debora
Seeking the Triune Image of God in You: A Glimpse Through a Keyhole, by Jeffrey D. Hill
Breathing Under Water: Spirituality and the Twelve Steps, by Richard Rohr

Re-reads. Finally, I read these three books a second time, because, in my humble opinion, they are just that good.

The Whole Language: The Power of Extravagant Tenderness, by Gregory Boyle
Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott
Present Over Perfect: Leaving Behind Frantic for a Simple, More Soulful Way of Living, by Shauna Niequist

Thirty-seven books, and probably a few more I forgot to write down. It is a still-infant privilege, this copious access to written material. And yet, having grown up in America late in the 21st century, I can’t imagine anything else. Shelves of books are the backdrop to my office, my small groups, and my mental and emotional spaces. I am profoundly thankful for each author who puts their words into public spaces, and for the privilege of having time to pick up those words and hang out with them.

What did you read in 2023? Leave a comment and maybe I’ll add your recommendation to the list of books I want to read.

New Love, or Old?

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Are babies new,
Or just recycled?
Does baptism make
A person new?
The Bible says
God’s mercies are
New every morning.
What is a
New mercy like?
How’s it different
From old mercy?
What is better—
New love, or
Old, wrinkled love?

Today, they say, begins
A new year.
It doesn’t feel
New to me.
My kids are older
And I’m older
And the world is older
And this feels
More like a “keep going” than
A “start fresh.”
But that’s okay.
I don’t need
To be a baby again.
With age comes
Wisdom, and it is the adding of
All my years
That tells me I can
Do this year.
I’ve done 38 years before,
And I know
I don’t need new resolutions
As much as
I need old love.

Savior Lullaby

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Birth

A babe in womb,
And His name shall be called Emmanuel:
God with us.
News and light to shepherds on a hill.

They found the Light swaddled tight,
In a cradle full of hay.
They left their sheep, to watch Him sleep,
Miracle and mess all mingled there.

What was the Father God feeling on that night?
How did Holy Spirit fill a newborn life?
Where did Mary find the strength to birth a God?
And did Joseph tire of the whispers: “Isn’t it odd?”

Born at night like billions of babies.
And born to be a light like none had seen.
He cried and nursed like ordinary babies,
While the angels sang a Savior lullaby.

Death

God poured out,
Blood and water streaming from His side,
As it turns out,
The babe-in-hay’s destiny’s to die.

Up all night, questioned, tried,
The subject of contempt,
He was alone, weary to the bone,
Love was bleeding, not retreating scared.

What was the Father God feeling on that night?
How did Holy Spirit fill an ebbing life?
Where did Mary find the strength to watch Him cry?
Forsaken, Jesus shouted, “Why, God? Why?”

He held His arms wide open, not by choice.
He let his soul be overcome by love.
Widows wept while evil men rejoiced,
And the angels sang a Savior lullaby.

Note: this can be sung to the tune of Brad Paisley’s song, “Whiskey Lullaby”

My Favorite Subject

Thoughts from an impertinent christian, mom, wife, and writer

Category Archives: Other Stuff

Gained in Translation

Julia, It’s either You or Me

Everything Is Well but Not Okay

From Pink Leather to Diversity

Bible Sidekick

Twenty Years in Love

What Is Kinship?

Books I Read in 2023

New Love, or Old?

Savior Lullaby