the blog formerly known as Utah Journal

The Prairies Calling

2012-01-30T21:21:00.002-06:00

Encircled though I am by mountains and city, I can feel the quiet pulse of the prairies today. I can almost hear the wind whistling through last year's corn stalks standing in the field, half-covered by snow. I sense the winter wheat lying close to the ground, patiently, patiently awaiting the spring thaw. And I, too, await a day when I will shed the coldness of this world, this body, this heart so prone to wandering.

Maybe it's because I've been re-reading the classic Giants In the Earth, a story of Norwegian pioneers in Dakota Territory. The land in Rølvaag's novel is vast, stark, and richly fertile, and it leaves no one unchanged who seeks to survive it, much less tame it.

After 130 years, the land had been survived and peopled and maybe even slightly tamed, but it still inspired awe for Rich Mullins, who wrote a song to the Keeper of the Plains.

And so, in belated celebration of Kansas Day (I spent the majority of yesterday sick in bed, alas); and because there are some days when I just miss the prairies, and even more days when I long to be "shaken free of this old world"; and also because this is a beautifully poignant song and a good cover that begs to be shared...

Reflections on Sanctity of Human Life Sunday

2012-01-22T18:12:00.000-06:00

What does it mean to be pro-life?

For me, it means I vote in every possible election in my district, with the primary consideration being the candidates' position on moral issues. Not the economy or foreign policy; not their business experience or endorsements. Those are secondary. What I care about most: which candidate will do the most to protect and value human life?

It means I actively support my local Pregnancy Resource Center, through my time and finances.

It means I sign petitions and participate in respectful, gracious public demonstrations. I contact my elected representatives about related issues. I choose health care sharing instead of medical insurance.

But being pro-life means so much more.

It means I volunteer in my church's nursery on a regular basis. I wipe noses and I wipe bottoms; I read books aloud and go to great and goofy lengths to make the new toddler giggle.

It means I go out of my way to spend evenings with an elderly, home-bound friend. I listen to her stories even though I've heard them before. I do her laundry and her errands.

It means I seek out employment where I can directly serve other people, improving their quality of life. Currently, that means helping people obtain better vision. My favorite cases are the children from low-income families who, through a philanthropic program, are able to receive their first pair of glasses. Their faces light up when they realize what it is to see shapes, colors, and faces with clarity for the first time.

It means I try to stay informed on human trafficking, sex slavery, unjust imprisonment, child labor, government-enforced one-child policies, and the rise of Christian martyrdom around the world. I refuse to give into my desire to remain ignorant of these ugly facts. I weep when I encounter stories of injustice. To the best of my ability, I boycott businesses who do not properly address these issues.

It means I support the men and women who serve in my country's military, placing themselves in harm's way to preserve the life of freedom I enjoy.

It means I send money every month to missionaries who are faithfully serving their communities in Asia and South America, sharing the life-giving Word of God in places characterized by poverty and persecution.

It means I choose to live in a place far from family and familiarity, to serve a cause bigger than myself: spreading the message of God's grace that leads to eternal and abundant life for all who believe.

And it means I pray to a sovereign God for others' needs, physical and spiritual, when they are made known to me.

Are any of these actions extraordinary? Nope; lots of people do them. Could I be doing more? I'm sure.

But don't miss the point. Being pro-life is not merely a "right-wing" political stance. It is a fundamental worldview that touches every aspect of life. When you believe in the inherent value of each and every human from conception through eternity, every decision you make, every action you take will be driven by it.

Nor is it an original idea. My Jesus fed the hungry, healed the sick, raised the dead, embraced children, protected women, and went so far as to lay down His own precious life that you and I might be made alive forever. Without ever signing a petition or endorsing a political candidate, He is the ultimate pro-life activist. May our lives be patterned after His.

"I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

I am the good shepherd; the good shepherd lays down His life for the sheep." John 10

Valleyisms: The Ratio

2012-01-12T07:30:00.000-06:00

The Ratio. It never ceases to amaze me: the number of Latter-day Saint congregations versus other churches here.

This is a photo I took after climbing Squaw Mountain in November. It shows a section of north Provo along with a sliver of east Orem. Near the center of the picture is the building where I work part-time. If you zoom in and you know what to look for, you'll count at least nine LDS meeting houses. Each of these chapels hosts two or three LDS wards (congregations). (The size of a ward varies, but if we can trust Wikipedia, it's typically between 200-500 people.) To the best of my knowledge, the only church of any other type located within the frame of this photo is the lone small Lutheran church in the city.

That's a congregation ratio of something like 21:1. Do you know of anywhere else in the U.S. like this?

To live here, one must all but dismiss any notions of American diversity. But you can always, like me, work out the angst of this by climbing a mountain.

Only in Utah Valley.

Valleyisms: Alma and... Coffee Shops?

2012-01-11T06:15:00.000-06:00

If you had to get your CatchPhrase team to guess the phrase alma mater, what would you say? How about: "The first word is the longest book in The Book of Mormon!"

That's how it went down at a game night I went to recently, the token Gentile in a circle of Latter-day Saint young adults. And yes, it worked; Team 1 quickly guessed their teammate's word.

But I am proud to say my Team 2 won two out of three rounds, despite the challenge I had of hurriedly describing my phrase,"coffee shop", to people who have probably never been in one. Oh, the irony of that! Not unlike describing a cut of pork to an Orthodox Jew. But my teammates were good sports and guessed the answer within a few tries. Then: "Coffee shop? What's a coffee shop?" one guy, nineteen days away from beginning his two-year mission, jokingly asked as I passed the game piece to the next player. Kudos to those of us who can laugh good-naturedly at the quirks of our traditions. Indeed, respectful humor is not a bad place to start a conversation between or about vastly different belief systems. At least I'm pretty sure he was kidding.

Next time, maybe we can play a rousing game of Book of Mormon WHO?

Only in Utah Valley.

Valleyisms: Missionary Shoes

2012-01-10T08:00:00.000-06:00

Missionary shoes. Google the phrase and you'll get sites like MissionShoe.com. They have a clever logo, a catchy slogan ("Helping you serve, one step at a time"), and a page of glowing testimonials ("I have worn them everyday since I got out of the MTC [Missionary Training Center] and they rock").

But for those local Latter-day Saints who have received their mission callings and who prefer a brick-and-mortar store for their footwear needs, there are shops like this one I photographed.

If you're wondering what exactly a "missionary shoe" is: it's black, pricey, nondescript, and ultra-sensible. It must stand up to two years (or one and a half for the ladies) of almost constant wear by a Mormon missionary going door-to-door in Boise or Buenas Aires or Bangkok. It has also been paired for time and all eternity to a matching shoe for the opposite foot. <---This is a joke. I think.

Only in Utah Valley.

A Considerable Tent

2011-08-19T00:31:00.000-05:00

To celebrate my two-year anniversary at A Considerable Speck,
I purchased this lovely original artwork for the empty space above my piano.
(Check out Willowgrass Designs on Etsy.com.)

Two years. That's how long a young man serves a full-time mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It's also how long I've been living at my current apartment, A Considerable Speck. This is the longest I've stayed in one residence, since leaving my folks' ten years ago. I have called this little duplex "home" for over a third of the time I've been in Utah. Some day I would like to move to a bigger place, capable of hosting groups more comfortably. But for now this is home, as much as a manmade building can be. I am here for something far more permanent than a two-year mission.

And so I find myself living a delicate balance: purposefully sticking around, putting roots down, building relationships, investing in long-term ministry here in Utah Valley; yet being careful not to grow too comfortable in a place whose very existence is a fractioned heartbeat relative to eternity. For all the grandeur and rugged strength of these mountains outside my window, they will pass away at God's appointed time. Meanwhile, I seek an Abrahamic perspective:

By faith he lived as an alien in the land of promise, as in a foreign land, dwelling in tents [...] for he was looking for the city which has foundations, whose architect and builder is God. (Hebrews 11:9-10)

A Considerable Speck, therefore, is just a "tent": a temporary residence on my way to heaven.

That said, I'm tickled that this tent comes with a carport and programmable thermostat.

Remind Me Who I Am

2011-08-08T21:44:00.000-05:00

Who are you?

I am:
Daughter, sister, aunt, friend.
Public relations director, optician, Bible teacher.
Single.
Missionary.
Bible college grad.
Lip balm addict.

Sinner.

Selfish.
Phony, hypocrite.
Lazy.
Jealous, lonely.
Shallow, judgmental, ignorant.
Misunderstood.
Wounded.

But.
My identity is not wrapped up in my family or my vocation.
I am not simply the sum total of my personality and experiences.
I am not confined by the perceptions of others'.
I am not defined by my choices and successes.
Nor am I captive to my disadvantages and failures.

Sometimes I just need to be reminded who I really am:

Forgiven,
Beloved,
Hidden in Christ,
Made in the image of the Giver of life.
Righteous and holy,
Reborn and remade,
Accepted and worthy:
This is [my] new name.
I am new.

Thank you, Jason Gray.

It is worth noting that Jason does not address the question of identity merely from an academic standpoint. He knows whereof he speaks: Jason has a speech impediment. What would normally be considered a severe handicap to a career vocalist, has become an evidence of God's grace and an agent of inspiration. It serves as a constant reminder that, for the Christ-follower, identity is not determined by Self, but by Christ Himself.

I'm the one You love,
I'm the one You love;
That will be enough.

"I will call those who were not My people, 'My people,'
and her who was not beloved, 'Beloved.'
And it shall be that in the place where it was said to them,
'You are not my people,'
there they shall be called sons of the living God." (Romans 9:26-27)

Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come. Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ... (2 Cor. 5:16-17 NASB)

Who are you?

Snow in June and Other Utah Humdingers

2011-06-26T01:54:00.002-05:00

Lydia and I, hiking on the east side of Mt. Timpanogos.

There is something about yards-deep snow on a 90-degree day that I can't quite comprehend. Shouldn't it be—oh, I don't know—melting or something?

I know this winter's was a record-breaking snowfall. I know the eastern slopes of mountains don't get as much sun exposure. And I know the snow is melting, but the runoff occurs under the snowpack and out of sight.

Add up all the facts—and still! wading through snow in shorts does not compute in this prairie-raised brain. It's a humdinger to Midwestern me, but a matter of routine in Utah. Like fry sauce. And billboards advertising modest clothing. And church steeples every few blocks, all void of a cross. Many Utah anomalies I gladly adapt to. Some: I pray I never do.

Walking for Life

2011-05-28T16:56:00.001-05:00

I love babies. I love life. I love the God Who creates life. That's why I support the Pregnancy Resource Center of Utah Valley. They provide free services for those unprepared for pregnancy and those traumatized by abortion. Yes, even in squeaky-clean Provo, Utah, there are many people dealing with these complex issues. That's why I'll be participating in the June 4 Walk for Life, benefiting the PRC. Would you consider helping me reach my $200 goal? Click here.

Victory in Jesus

2011-04-24T06:45:00.008-05:00

You have crushed beneath your heel the vile serpent, ¹

You have carried to the grave the black stain; ²

You have torn apart the temple's holy curtain, ³

You have beaten death at death's own game. ⁴

- From "Hosanna" by Andrew Peterson

¹ And I will put enmity between thee [the serpent] and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall bruise thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. Genesis 3:15

² ...Christ died for our sins according to the scriptures; And that he was buried, and that he rose again the third day according to the scriptures... I Corinthians 15:3-4

³ Jesus, when he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost. And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent... Matthew 27:50-51

⁴ ...Death is swallowed up in victory. I Corinthians 15:54

Near the Cross

2011-04-19T21:52:00.027-05:00

O sacred Head, now wounded,

With grief and shame weighed down,
Now scornfully surrounded,
With thorns Thine only crown.
How pale Thou art with anguish,
With sore abuse and scorn!
How doth Thy visage languish
Which once was bright as morn!

Don't old English words like "sore abuse" and "visage languish" seem more apt to describe the grisly, stomach-turning crucifixion of Christ than the casual American English of 2011?

The stanza above is part of the standard translation of a 12th-century hymn originally written in Latin. A few days ago, I listened to Chuck Swindoll read these words—part of a special series of Easter-themed messages on KEY Radio. He then made an observation to the effect that nobody is writing hymn texts like that nowadays.

It's not just the quaint vocabulary he was referring to; rather, I think his point was that we as the modern-day Church have generally settled into a religion of comfort, and we hesitate to dwell on our Savior's suffering. It is simply too uncomfortable to think about anyone—much less God!—whose flesh was torn, whose nakedness was exposed, whose bones were broken without either anesthesia or pity. Indeed, we embrace what the Cross purchased for us (reconciliation with a holy God) without understanding the enormity of the cost paid physically by Christ.

Dr. Swindoll's remarks got me thinking, as they often do. Is it true that songs about Jesus' suffering and humiliation are not being written by my generation of believers? Of course, I cannot speak authoritatively; I can only make the unscientific observations of a music-lover and occasional radio deejay. But sadly, I must agree there is a void of songwriting here.

Building a playlist for KEY that afternoon, however, I found a few notable exceptions to what I fear is the rule. "Blessed Redeemer," by Mark Hall and Bernie Herms does not shy away from Christ's pain: "I see him on Calvary's tree, wounded and bleeding..." Nor did Chad Cates, Todd Smith, and Tony Wood sugarcoat the crucifixion when writing, "Beautiful Terrible Cross." (An aside: hymn-lovers will notice the Selah version of this song incorporating musical phrases of the old Fanny Crosby hymn "Near the Cross"—subtly paying tribute to the generation- and culture-spanning power of Jesus' death.)

One more thought: balance. We should meditate on both the Cross and what it accomplished. Contemplating Christ's agony does little good when I don't apply its ramifications to my life. Because Jesus willingly died on the cross (and rose again! that's a whole other post), I have victory over sin, Satan and death! What is more worthy of song?

And so I share with you these few songs about different aspects of the Cross. As they have done for me, may they help you to "fix your eyes on Jesus... who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. For consider Him who has endured such hostility by sinners against Himself" (Hebrews 12).

(Please forgive the commercial inserted before the final song. "Free salvation" means no strings attached; not so with "free music player.")

Keeping Missions In Front(ier)

2011-02-28T22:11:00.001-06:00

One of my 2011 ministry goals was to post twice a month on my blog. Ha. That's me: ever the optimist. But there is still three hours left in February, if you're in Mountain time like I—and if you're not, you really should consider moving west and adding another hour to your life—so I'll rustle up a post. It is simply a short but hearty endorsement of this:

I had the privilege of being at Frontier School of the Bible for six days this month, participating in a missions conference. I say "a" missions conference, not "the" missions conference, because Frontier has three every school year. Three, for crying out loud. And here I thought the "missions conference" was an endangered animal. But there it was: six days of special speakers and workshops and dinners and presentations and displays, all with the purpose of exposing students to opportunities of participating in Christ's Great Commission.

As if that weren't enough, I was also impressed with the warmth of the student body, the friendliness of the faculty and staff, the homemade goodness of the food, and the pleasantness of the facilities and setting. And did I mention the food?

Frontier School of the Bible is located in rural southeastern Wyoming. Affordable, concentrated study of God's Word and preparation for ministry. Check it out here.

"She's Away and Westward Bound"

2011-01-11T23:13:00.003-06:00

They say the best songs are borne of experience. If that's true, singer/songwriter Gordon Lightfoot must have had his share of travel woes and adventures.

I picked up a compilation cassette of Lightfoot's music at Goodwill while I was home for Christmas. Little did I know how it would prove to be the soundtrack of my trip back to Utah.

The journey began uneventfully enough at the Great Bend, Kansas airport. (Airport is used only in the strictest sense here. The terminal is a small, one-room brick building with a single glass door that opens to the tarmac.) My folks sent me off with hugs, last-minute parental advice, and a small roll of cash slipped into my hand. Pro that I am, leaving home is never easy.

But the mountains [...] are calling out to me,

And I got my bedroll on my back

And everything that I could pack to see me on my way...

Four of us passengers boarded the 19-seater; since there was no flight attendant, the co-captain—who looked barely old enough to shave—checked our seat belts and gave the flotation device shpeel. Then takeoff. It's a small thing in the grand scheme, but I thanked my Father for a clear day to fly over farmlands; there are few things as beautiful to my eyes as the rural Midwest viewed from 39,000 feet.

And the prairie towns go sailing by...

A quick stop in Dodge City yielded one more passenger; then it was on to Denver. Though it was a crisp, sunny day when we took off, the sky clouded as we flew west. By the time we landed in Colorado, it was a regular blizzard. But, so far so good.

All is well.

I left the cold midwestern towns behind...

My next flight to Salt Lake City was scheduled to leave in 1.5 hours. Winter weather, however, would dictate otherwise. Along with thousands of other passengers, my layover became what I call a delayover.

This old airport's got me down, it's no earthly use to me
Cause I'm stuck here on the ground, cold [...] as I can be...

My flight was pushed back several times until the boarding call sounded about two hours behind schedule. I called home; Mom answered and I let her know I wouldn't be calling when I arrive in Provo since it is already late.

Does your mother know, you had to go someday?

Just tell her [...] That you've got ten dollars and you'll be all right,

And when you get straight you're gonna come back east some day...

But the waiting wasn't over. First, we sat in line to deice the plane. It was dark now, with snow blowing under the lights and a chill creeping into the cabin.

Out on runway number nine, big 707 set to go,
But I'm stuck here on the ground where the cold winds blow...

About the time I should have been pulling into my driveway in Utah, we finally took off from Denver.

Hear the mighty engines roar, see the silver bird on high;

She's away and westward bound, high above the clouds she'll fly...

It was a late but safe landing in wintery Salt Lake City. Five inches of snow and ice had to be cleared off my car. That was easy compared to the task of getting inside it. The doors were frozen shut. After much prying, yanking, pleading, huffing and puffing, I got the driver's door open and crawled in. Only now the door wouldn't close; the latch was frozen in place.

I have had to hold my door closed as I've driven to work on a cold morning once or twice, but driving 50 minutes on the interstate is entirely different. My door must latch. The parking lot attendants only offered a sympathetic shake of the head and pointed me to a truck stop. Once there, I pulled out some tools and a flashlight and attempted surgery with numb fingers. Where was my capable-of-anything dad when I needed him?

I'm a long way from home

And I miss my loved ones so...

Ten minutes later, with no success, I admitted what I was: a Helpless Female. I went inside the truck stop to look for a hero. The girl behind the counter called over Hector, a young man whose wide smile I soon realized meant, "I am not an English-speaker and I would love to help but I have no idea what you're saying." Still, he seemed to recognize a Helpless Female when he saw one.

And the service station man agreed I didn't look too well...

Hector followed me out, and by gestures I made him understand what the problem was. He motioned for me to get in the car and then he slammed the door. It latched! At last I headed south to Provo and my warm bed.

All is well.

The foothills are coming into sight.

Today is just a memory, the future is tonight.

And the red pines will bow their heads,

The rivers and the watersheds will carry us along,

And the mountains [...] will greet me there as only [they] can do.

All is well.

Excerpts from songs by the great Gordon Lightfoot: Early Morning Rain, Mountains and Maryann, Does Your Mother Know.

The Light of the Whole World

2010-12-24T14:00:00.002-06:00

Stand amazed, ye heavens!

2010-12-23T20:42:00.000-06:00

See th'Eternal Son of GOD

A Mortal Son of Man,

Dwelling in an Earthly Clod

Whom Heaven cannot contain!

Stand amaz'd ye Heavens at This!

See the LORD of Earth and Skies

Humbled to the Dust He is,

And in a Manger lies!

-- Charles Wesley

Thanksgiving

2010-11-25T23:34:00.000-06:00

Of all the things I am thankful for, spiritual blessings rank highest. I used to be "dead in my trespasses and sins," according to God. But now check out what Ephesians says is mine in Christ. And this is just a sampling. Wow.

www.Tagxedo.com

All this can be yours, too.
And the best is yet to be. Amen, come Lord Jesus!

Oh, Sweet Construction-Free Peace!

2010-10-12T23:45:00.000-05:00

The interstate is just a couple stone's throw from A Considerable Speck, and it's undergoing a massive revamp: four more lanes, all new interchanges, etc. It will be oh-so-wonderful when it's finished. But for the next 18 months or so: delays, detours, dust—and noise. (My alliteration skills fail me.)

And so this song by Nicky Mehta came to mind the other night as I lay awake, trying not to listen to the grating sounds of highway construction. (Pun intended.)

Oh, sweet peace, never have you fallen upon this town...

I cannot rest... at least until the darkness is quiet for a while.

How convenient that my friend (at least in the world of Facebook), Don Shorock, taped the winsome trio The Wailin' Jennys performing the song. I attended this beautiful concert, so if you hear an earnest though slightly off-key alto on the sing-along chorus—well, I'll let you put two and two together.

Peace or no peace, my home is in heaven anyway. Jesus said He's preparing a place for me before I get there, so there'll be no construction hubbub on those streets of gold once I arrive, thank you very much. I've been keeping a mental list, and I think "No Construction" makes Reason #1,742 that I am glad to be glory bound. Amen?

Labor Day? Never again.

2010-09-06T12:31:00.000-05:00

The gospel encourages me to rest in my righteous standing with God, a standing which Christ Himself has accomplished and always maintains for me.*

I never have to do a moment's labor to gain or maintain my justified status before God!**

Freed from the burden of such a task, I now can put my energies into enjoying God, pursuing holiness, and ministering God's amazing grace to others.

* Romans 5:1-2 Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom also we have obtained our introduction by faith into this grace in which we stand; and we exult in hope of the glory of God.
** I John 2:1-2 ...And if anyone sins, we have an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous; and He Himself is the propitiation for our sins...

—A Gospel Primer For Christians, Milton Vincent

What a Spectacle

2010-09-04T21:51:00.000-05:00

I have been told I have my father's eyes. Thanks to the (somewhat absurd) American fashion cycle, I can now have my father's glasses, too.

A Considerable Speck

2010-08-30T22:48:00.000-05:00

This past week marked exactly one year since I moved into my Provo duplex. To celebrate, here are a few photos of my home, affectionately called A Considerable Speck (a nod to Robert Frost's poem). This little place is a "good and perfect gift from the Father of Heavenly Lights." Come on a virtual tour of the first floor. (And then come for a real honest-to-goodness visit!)

My cozy kitchen, where many a box of Mac and Cheese meets its demise. Laundry niche behind the red curtain.

The patio window looks out to a small private patio and lawn. And beyond those, an unkempt lot with an apple tree, several cats and an abandoned car or two—reminds me of West Virginia for some reason.

Robert Plant hanging out with some wall decs I designed in the background. (Anyone who achieves the otherworldly experience of singing harmony with Alison Krauss deserves to have a florum named after him, I think.)

More plants that have somehow survived my "care" and also escaped my propensity for naming inanimate objects. Also notice the thrift store vinyl jackets which make very cost-effective decs. Move over, Martha Stewart.

I'm a firm believer that pillows make a room. I haven't found Scriptural backing for this yet, but it's gotta be in there somewhere.

A close-up of my new curtains. Is it just me or does the design look Tolkien-ish? I could see this flower gently waving in the warm breezes that blow through Rivendell...

I am quite fond of my piano, odd-ball knob or no. Before it came to A Considerable Speck, it belonged successively to three dear friends, believers here in Utah. My heart warms to think of the many hymns played and sung around it. And that picture on the right gets more compliments than anything else I have, making it fully worth the one buck I spent on it at a dollar store in Beckley, West Virginia. Score. I do love a good road picture/song/poem.

Any P.D.Q. Bach fans out there? This "Black Forest Bluegrass"
album cover tickles my funny bone. As P.D.Q. himself would say: "It's got that certain je ne sais quoi."

I found these fantastic book ends at a yard sale a few weeks ago. This one's name is Gog and the other's is Magog, a nod to L.M. Montgomery's Anne of the Island. Sometimes we bookish sorts overdo it on the "nods".
.

A Picture Is Worth Four Posts

2010-08-25T22:53:00.001-05:00

It took me four posts to document my travel saga but it took artist Christoph Niemann just a few doodles for his. If you have flown much, you will certainly identify, and laugh at the accuracy of his clever drawings. See them here. My personal favorite is the 9:57am "poppyseed" entry. That's me times 10, thanks to these braces, which, since you asked, will be coming off in November and then bring on the poppyseed, sister!

Grace to You

2010-08-18T22:58:00.000-05:00

Grace. It was my grandma's name. It's what my name means. It has been the subject of I-don't-know-how-many sermons, lectures and songs I've heard over the years, growing up in the church and attending Bible college. Even so, when it comes to understanding God's grace for me, I've just begun to scratch the surface. I have settled all too often for a shallow, defeated, quasi-Christianity instead of embracing the fullness of His grace. Thanks to Pastor Milton Vincent for bringing this deficiency to my attention in a most thoughtful and heartfelt manner, during the recent Utah/Idaho BMW (Biblical Ministries Worldwide) Field Retreat. And thanks to Laura Story for writing and recording this sincere, reflective song—which I've found myself adding to just about every playlist I've built for KEYY since the Retreat. Her song solidifies in my mind and heart much of what Pastor Milton spoke of, and I hope it rings true for you, too.

Good stuff, huh?

Will you let me do something for you? I want to purchase an mp3 and send it to you, so you can listen to Laura Story's "Grace" whenever you need a reminder of the incredible riches of God's grace for you. Just get me your email address somehow, if I don't already have it, and I'll "gift" the song to you on iTunes. Leave a comment, or go the more secure route and email me (k c l a r k 3 4 @ y a h o o . c o m).

Farewell

2010-08-13T21:46:00.000-05:00

Farewell to my pickle-eating, bike-riding, piano-playing, deep-thinking, often-laughing, imaginatively-cooking roomie, Becca. It's been a great summer.

Good, Better, Best: Three Reviews of New Media

2010-08-01T00:11:00.009-05:00

I am a sucker for tear-jerker storybook animals like Lassie and Black Beauty and Misty of Chincoteague. Therefore, I was disappointed when Blind Hope: An Unwanted Dog and the Woman She Rescued did not quite turn out to be the moving pet story I thought it would be. Mostly, it's the true story of a young woman emerging from a destructive past and slowly realizing what following Christ is all about. The neglected Australian shepherd Laurie adopts aids her in learning authenticity, trust, joy and hope. I found the writing style distracting, as needless dialogue and awkward narrative make the story seem a bit forced. I ended up skim-reading parts. Still, there are nuggets of truth and heartwarming anecdotes any dog-lover will enjoy. And yes, I did cry when the dog died. Except she didn't die. Oh, you'll just have to read it yourself to know what I mean. Keep reading to learn how to get a free copy. (This book was provided for review by the WaterBrook Multnomah Publishing Group. You can purchase it here.)

I'm fairly certain Phil Vischer, of VeggieTales fame, has more creativity in his pinky toe than the rest of us 7 billion inhabitants of Earth possess collectively. Don't you love it when someone with a God-given talent uses it to build up the kingdom? That's reason number one why I was excited to hear of the release of Phil's "What's In the Bible?" DVD series in March. The other reason: we've got heaps of bibliology-illiterate folks sitting in our churches these days. Many Christians aren't prepared to intelligently defend their faith and the Book on which their faith is (or should be) founded. I have a hunch that's partly because when they (we) were kids, they learned Bible stories without really learning the Bible. What is the Bible? How did we get it? Why is it organized the way it is? Is it meant to be taken literally? What does the word "bible" even mean, for goodness' sake? These are some of the questions Phil Vischer sets out to answer for kids, using a delightful cast of puppets, catchy songs, high-quality production, and lots of humor. I love, love, love the concept. After hearing glowing reviews, I purchased the first (of three, so far) DVD ($14.99), including two 25-minute episodes: "What Is the Bible?" and "Who Wrote the Bible?" I laughed and learned and I tapped my toes to the music. Yes, I would love to add my glowing review to the rest. However, some unsatisfactory tiptoeing around controversial issues gives me serious reservations. The most disturbing is how the narrative of creation in Genesis chapter 1 is left open to interpretation. According to Phil, it's a matter of opinion whether or not God created the world in six literal, 24-hour days. He even invokes the worn-out and illogical argument: "with the Lord a day is like a thousand years" (2 Peter 3:8). (For an excellent 2-minute rebuttal, listen to this.) Alas, if only there were some way to edit out these moments of wishy-washy theology, I would heartily endorse "What's In the Bible?" DVDs.

And now we come to a product I can endorse, yea even urge you to purchase. In fact, it deserves a post all its own. It deserves a blog all its own. Shoot, it deserves an internet all its own. It is "Counting Stars", singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson's July 27 release. I am still digesting these 13 songs of a Christ-follower's struggle and peace, longing and fulfillment, transgression and redemption. Andrew's music always moves me deeply and this is perhaps his most intimate collection yet. Give me a little more time to absorb. For now, I'll simply quote Jonathan Rogers: "These songs aren’t safe. They hunker down and wrestle around, and they come up limping. The hope they express is hard-won." Hard-won hope; authentic, unshakeable hope: that's the album in a nutshell. You will not regret purchasing it.

Thanks to the good folks at WaterBrook Multnomah, I have a free copy of Blind Hope to give away. For your chance to win, leave a comment recommending a book/movie/album you've recently read/watched/heard.

Chuckles: A Fable

2010-07-21T22:16:00.000-05:00

Chuckles the Chocolate Lab knows that the sun's UV (ultraviolet) radiation has been linked to:

1. Cataracts, a clouding of the eye's lens, eventually necessitating surgical removal,
2. Cancer in the delicate skin around the eyes (melanoma),
3. Macular degeneration (according to some studies), resulting in loss of vision in the center of the visual field,
... and several other types of eye damage.

So Chuckles doesn't leave home without his sunglasses, especially in the summer. When he purchased them, he made sure the lenses block 100% UVA/UVB. He was savvy enough to decline sunglasses with plastic lenses, even though they were tinted very dark; he knows it's the glass and polycarbonate lenses that protect his eyes. Furthermore, Chuckles was careful to select a pair with large, close-fitting lenses—and not just because they're fashionable. He realizes UV radiation poses a hazard to his eyes.

Chuckles knows it's no laughing matter.

(This thinly-veiled admonition brought to you by your friendly virtual optician.)

2010-07-17T20:37:00.000-05:00

All the travel headaches were worth it in the end. I had a pleasant ten days visiting family, as these photos attest. Featured characters in this little slideshow are my folks, my brother and his wife, my nephew and niece, paternal grandparents and maternal extended family. The building project was a storage shed for my brother's yard. And the background music? One of my favorite cuts from Tom, my traveling buddy. It's called "First Winter"; he plays both acoustic guitar and mandolin on it, and I believe he wrote the music as well.

Part IV: Emotional Baggage

2010-07-16T23:43:00.000-05:00

(Read Part I here, Part II here, and Part III here.)

2:45am Tom and I have split a bag of Twizzlers, found a quiet corner, and made every effort to fall asleep in these terribly rigid chairs. No luck. What to do, what to do? Why, deliberate the American political scene, of course. That and generational gaps, the Apostle Paul, dog breeds and mandolin flat-picking technique. Later, we pull out our laptops and he transfers a bunch of music files to mine—songs he has written and recorded. And so, despite less-than-ideal circumstances, the wee hours of the morning are pleasantly spent in Denver International Airport.

4:45am My folks are in Central time and should be be up by now. (This may be the first time in the history of the world that I am awake earlier than they.) I call home and announce I am headed to Omaha in six hours; could they meet me there? Or should I try to fly directly to Minnesota (we had been planning to drive there from Kansas in two days)? Or attempt to fly standby to Wichita? Ever calm and analytical, Dad states, "There are no good options here." He decides on a plan I hadn't even thought of: he and mom will drive the six hours to Denver and pick me up. Note to self: nice Christmas presents for the folks this year. Maybe a cruise? A jar of cashews is definitely not going to cut it after this.

5:00am It's time for Tom to find his gate. I walk him there and we shake hands with, "Take care, God bless." I wish I were better at goodbyes. It's only been twelve hours since we met, but I'll miss Tom.

5:45am I sit with a $3 scone and a $3 hot chocolate (Starbucks was the only food vendor open this early) beside the customer service desk in the United Airlines wing of the terminal. It is insanely cold down here. At least customer service will be open in fifteen minutes; then I can cancel my ticket to Omaha and get some help finding my checked baggage.

6:10am I know I was rudely told last night that customer service would open at 6:00am, but here I stand shivering in front of an empty desk, with no airline agents in sight. There are a few other travelers around, sitting hunched up against the arctic air that blows incessantly from overhead ducts. Those who don't have coats are wrapped in newspapers. I have neither. It's June, for crying out loud, but I promise myself I will never fly without a sweater again. If I survive hypothermia today, that is.

6:20am It's killing me to just sit here doing nothing. I imagine my suitcase full of clothes and gifts and presentation materials being loaded onto an Omaha-bound plane in the quiet Denver dawn. Ugh, the last thing I need right now is a lost suitcase. I pull out my computer, locate United's website, and place a call to their 24-hour customer service number. What follows is a thirty-minute exercise in futility. English is not this woman's first or even second language. Maybe fourteenth? It doesn't help that there's all kinds of static. (Me: "Can you locate my baggage?" Her: "Num thalit wintrup feenwally.") Finally she calls in her supervisor. "Sorry," he tells me. "Your baggage destination is Wichita and there's nothing we can do to stop it." Then he assures me that United will deliver my suitcase to my parents' home... for a fee. This is not a satisfactory answer. I hang up.

7:05am Someone arrives at the customer service desk. A very sour-looking someone wearing a sweater layered over a turtleneck (shouldn't that be a clue to the climate control people at DIA?). But it takes her all of twenty seconds to reroute my suitcase to the Denver baggage claim. No unintelligible responses, no fees—that's my kind of customer service, sour or not. Now there is nothing to do but find the baggage claim and wait.

9:00am I have been sitting by the baggage carousel for an hour and a half, slowly growing more apprehensive. My suitcase could be on its way to Wichita or Omaha, or it could be lost in the labyrinth of Denver International Airport baggage conveyor belts...

9:20am A big black suitcase with an Expedia ID tag tumbles out onto the carousel. Mine! I admit I got teary eyed. It felt like a measure of sanity and control was returned to me along with that suitcase. The first thing I do is pull out a sweater... still trying to thaw out. Now for more waiting.

12:00pm I figure this is the very earliest my parents could arrive from Kansas, so I put away my book, my laptop and my iPod and begin to pace. Remember, they have no cell phone, so we're hoping to just run into each other in the expansive baggage claim area of this terminal.

12:45pm Still pacing. I catch a glimpse of red plaid out of the corner of my eye. It's French Guy! He looks rough, but then I probably do, too. I try to make eye contact and give a sympathetic look, but he is too distracted by his plight to notice me. Bless his heart, I wonder if he'll ever reach Europe.

1:15pm I finally spot my mom walking toward me. She sees me about the same time and it's like one of those slow motion movies where two people run toward each other with arms wide open. No matter how old I get, I still believe my parents can make everything okay. The nightmare is coming to an end. We climb in the car and head east.

8:15pm Home sweet home! Only 22 hours behind schedule. Shower, bed, sleep, oh! blessed sleep. Thank You, Lord, for safety, for blessings amid the bumps, for self-sacrificial parents, for always being in control.

Postscript: There was no toaster from United; it was a $150 voucher. A nice gesture... not that I'm eager to fly again anytime soon.

Part III: A Tale of Two Vending Machines

2010-07-08T22:27:00.004-05:00

(Read Part I here and Part II here.)

9:45pm My bladder is about to burst. I finally give in and use the airplane restroom. It is every bit as foul as I fear. I stumble back to my seat and force myself to think on roses, mountain breezes and the innocent laughter of small children until the nausea passes.

10:00pm Begin the taxi to takeoff. We'll try to arrive in Denver between storm fronts.

10:20pm Still taxiing. Just when I begin to wonder if we are in fact driving this plane all the way to Denver, the captain announces that right before we were cleared for takeoff, the wind reversed directions and we had to taxi to the opposite end of the airport to get on the other runway. A few of us bravely attempt a chuckle at this news.

11:15pm We're in a holding pattern over stormy Denver for the second time, waiting for clearance to land. Fuel is low. Spirits are even lower.

11:30pm Landing in Denver? Not gonna happen, cap'n. Hi-ho, hi-ho, it's back to Grand Junction we go! I can't decide whether to laugh or cry, so I just turn and ask Tom if he's ever played a bouzouki. He has not, but the question leads into a fascinating discussion of instrumentation and alternate tunings.

12:00am (Saturday) Landing again in Grand Junction. I have nothing against this pleasant, outdoorsy little town at the foot of the Rockies—but I do not want to see it for the second time in three hours. This is beginning to seem surreal, like I'll never get home.

12:10am We are allowed to deplane. It feels glorious to step into the fresh night air (no thunderstorms here!) and walk inside the tiny airport. The last time most of us ate was twelve hours ago; we swarm the lone vending machine. When a passenger discovers one-half of her Little Debbie covered in green mold, the rest of us think better of it and ignore our grumbling tummies.

12:30am Back on the airplane, it is announced that the aircraft has taken on the very maximum fuel load. We'll circle Denver as looooong as we gotta! Flight attendants, in a sudden gesture of generosity, pass baskets of small pretzels packages and bottles of water. It is amazing how a half-day of mind-numbing, meal-less waiting can change one's perspective about the otherwise-laughable airline "food service." I take the pretzels meekly, gratefully; I savor ever bite.

1:00am We have landed! In Denver! A mere nine hours tardy. As we taxi, a flight attendant announces a website url, where we will find a gift from United Airlines, a "token of appreciation for your extended patience." My seatmate, Tom, grumbles, "They'll probably give us—what?—a toaster? I don't want a toaster, I want to go home." It's a good-natured sort of grumble; I laugh. Everything is much more cheerful with the Rockies to the west.

1:15am Inside the Denver airport, we are greeted with the news: customer service closed fifteen minutes ago. Tom and I frantically search for a desk still open. Our search pays off: one agent is just beginning to leave. We all but grovel at her feet, pleading for help to rebook our long-ago missed flights. She reluctantly agrees. But I am not out of the woods, not by a long shot—there are no seats open to Wichita for two days! Kansas City? Not there, either. I wrack my brain for the next-closest airport. Omaha? I ask in a small voice.

1:45am I clutch a ticket to Omaha; Tom has one to Pittsburgh. We throw mold-caution to the wind and go in search of a celebratory vending machine snack. A fellow stranded traveler helps us hunt one down in a forlorn niche of the terminal. Tom treats me to a package of Twizzlers. We step around the scattered bodies of fitfully-sleeping travelers and find a couple of empty seats, confident that this nightmare is nearly over. Not quite...

Next: Part IV, including a reunion with French Guy (see Part I), a farewell to Tom, and a panicked search for a suitcase. (I promise—no, I hope—it will be the overdue conclusion of this drawn-out travel saga. This thing is like the Energizer Bunny or the Democrats' spending: it just won't stop.)

Grand Parade, Provo-style

2010-07-05T16:47:00.000-05:00

Here's another taste of Provo culture for you out-of-staters. The following clips are from today's Freedom Festival grand parade. Yes, those are LDS (Mormon) missionaries being cheered on by the crowd. To be fair, people applauded almost as loudly for every military veteran who passed. The second clip shows a float depicting the Salt Lake City Temple and some Mormon pioneers.

Happy 3rd of July!

2010-07-04T00:50:00.002-05:00

Only in Utah do we celebrate the 4th of July on the 3rd of July when Independence Day falls on a Sunday! (The LDS Church teaches that Sunday is the sabbath and thus "our attention is on doing the Lord’s will and not continuing to work nor indulge our carnal appetites for recreation and loafing.") Provo's Freedom Festival is one of the biggest patriotic celebrations in the nation, and its Stadium of Fire event hosts the largest stadium fireworks display. Patti staked out a spot on the BYU campus earlier in the evening so we had a great view of the fireworks, except for an inconvenient tree branch. Gabe and Zeke, the boys of my co-laborers Josh and Christina Harding, are my fireworks-watching buddies here. (Note: I am not impressed by my own voice in the video's background. Good thing I'm not on the radio or anything.)

Happy Independence Day! Thank you to all our veterans, and may God shed His grace on America.

Part II: Denver Bound! Sort of.

2010-06-29T00:06:00.000-05:00

(Read Part I here.)

7:30pm Flight 6296 to Denver finally boards. Everything is déjà vu as we find our seats, stow our carry-ons, buckle up. My seatmate and I greet each other with a second "hello." If we have to do this a third time it will be very awkward indeed.

7:50pm Take-off! Movement! The feeling of lifting off the ground and going somewhere!

8:00pm My seatmate takes out a book to read. I am intrigued by the title—something about the psychological effects of music. When I inquire, Tom says he is a casual musician. He plays guitar and mandolin in some local bands back in Pittsburgh. Though he has always played rock, the last few years Tom's been exploring acoustic music: Celtic, Americana, even classical. It is not often I get the pleasure of discussing the resurgence of American roots music; I put away my own book in favor of the conversation.

9:00pm The captain announces we're landing... in Grand Junction? There are thunderstorms in Denver and when we tried to land, we were diverted. Denver is on the east side of the Rocky Mountains, Grand Junction on the west. We have essentially taken two steps forward and one step back.

9:10pm We land at the poky Grand Junction, Colorado airport, along with a couple other diverted planes. Passengers are not allowed to deplane as we refuel and wait for weather to clear around Denver.

9:20pm Tom asks what I studied in college. From past experience, I fear that when I say "Bible and Theology," he will either give an awkward "Oh. I see," and immediately change the subject, or poke me with an elbow and say knowingly, "Oh, so you're a preacher!" Nevertheless, I answer his question, and Tom's enthusiastic response astounds me: "That's perfect! I've been wanting someone to explain the Bible to me."

Suddenly, I am not tired anymore. I don't care if I never see Denver or feel circulation in the lower half of my body again. This is the beginning of an hours-long off-and-on conversation with Tom about Bible history, church denominations and individual spirituality. I am all too happy to share with him my trust in the death and resurrection of the God-man, Jesus Christ, to pay my sin debt, guarantee my home in heaven and give me joy and victory in the meanwhile.

Tom soaks it all up. He, as it turns out, has placed his own faith in Christ for salvation, but he has never been encouraged to grow in his walk with God. He has been attending a certain denomination since childhood that is heavy on tradition but light on Bible teaching. "What I don't get," he shakes his head, "is why my priest never opens up a Bible and just reads from it, or tells us to read it. I mean, isn't Christianity all about the Bible?" Yes, it absolutely is, I affirm. "Maybe..." he says slowly, "Maybe I need to look for another church." I love it when the Holy Spirit makes a realization "click" for someone without my having to spell it out! We talk about what to look for in a good church, about the centricity of accurate, practical and compassionate preaching of God's word. He has a buddy, he tells me, who has told him the same things. (Hurrah for Philadelphia-Christian-Guy who was faithful to speak truth in love to his friend!) Praying: "Wow, Lord. You have given me something much better than an on-time flight. You have dropped right in my lap a chance to share my faith and encourage another believer. You are good and all Your ways are good."

Coming up next: Part III, including more thwarted travel plans and the afore-promised and all-important bag of pretzels.

Part I: United We Wait

2010-06-24T23:42:00.001-05:00

Most people have a horror story to tell about air travel. Until a couple weeks ago, I had none. But June 11 (and 12) took me through an outrageous string of events while trying to travel a mere 2 states away. This is the first installment of my attempt to chronicle the bumps and blessings of that very long, very bizarre experience.

1:00pm Kind friends drop me off at Salt Lake City International Airport. I bid them a cheerful goodbye, blissfully ignorant of the tumultuous 32 hours ahead of me.

2:20pm I board United flight 6296 to Denver. Still planning to be in Wichita, Kansas by 7:30pm and at my folks' house by 10:00.

3:10pm Still sitting at the gate. The captain announces that the hydraulic is leaking into the engine and this aircraft is not air-worthy. We 60-or-so passengers deplane and return to our gate in the airport. Praying: "Father, thank You for protecting us from a mechanical breakdown in the air. But, um, I'd really like to get home." (If nothing else, I am a candid pray-er.)

3:15pm I call my parents with the news, catching them just before leaving on the 2.5-hour drive to Wichita. They have no cell phone. They would have gone all the way to the airport before finding out I am still sitting in Salt Lake. Praying: "Thank You for sparing Mom and Dad a wasted trip. Now isn't there a Bible verse You could show them about the necessity of cell phones?"

3:25pm I begin to wait in line for the customer service desk by the gate. A Frenchman in an incongruous red plaid jacket is in front of me; he's trying to get to Europe for business. A Denver guy is behind me. He complains that he might be late to watching the Rockies trounce the Twins in Denver. I try to act sympathetic even though I was raised a Minnesota fan.

4:00pm Still waiting in line, and no closer to the desk. Commenting on the relatively peaceful passengers, despite United's lack of action or answers, French Guy says, "People are so nice here. In France, we would have had a revolution by now." I tell him, "A revolution sounds good. You lead us. I've got tweezers, and we'll find somebody who smuggled in a fingernail clipper or two." He declines and edges away from me. Later I realize I could probably have been arrested if someone reported me for saying that. Praying: "Thanks, God, for protecting me from my own stupidity."

4:30pm I decide to try checking out of the secure area and getting help at the ticket counter. When I arrive, the line seems slightly shorter there, so I stay.

5:15pm This line is not moving, either. Like not at all. I read my book while standing.

6:05pm I agonize over the decision whether to stay in this line or return to the original one at the gate. I do not want to miss any announcements at the gate, so I go through security again and head back to the gate. The TSA agent says, "Oh, weren't you through here a few hours ago...?" I force a smile and nod.

6:15pm United announces that they have "found another aircraft" for Flight 6296. What, an airplane was hiding? A jet had been overlooked like a misplaced penny? Right-o. There is no announcement of when the aircraft will arrive and when we will board. It is 7:15 Central; I should be buckling up for a smooth landing in Wichita.

6:45pm W-a-i-t-i-n-g. Haven't eaten since noon, but nervous to leave the gate area and miss the flight when the plane finally arrives. Praying: "Lord, I have no idea what's going on, but You're in control. Open my eyes to opportunities to please You even though this pretty much stinks." I knew He'd do it, but I'm still amazed at the extent.

Coming up next... Part II, including the opportunity God gave me, more bumps and blessings, and a bag of pretzels.

What Heroes Wear (or, The Death of Cynicism)

2010-06-23T22:18:00.002-05:00

His name is Joseph Woodruff and he spends his days wearing a navy vest, standing behind a ticket counter for Frontier Airlines in Kansas City International Airport. And he is my hero.

I was trying to get back to Utah on Monday. The plan: parents drop me off in Kansas City on their way home from Minnesota to Kansas; fly to Salt Lake City after a short layover in Denver; be home and taking a long hot shower by 9:00 that evening. It was going to be a quick, hassle-free trip. Also, braces are fun and Obama cuts taxes.

My flight to Denver had been delayed. I was going to miss my connection to Salt Lake City. I would have to spend the night either in Kansas City or Denver, and hope to reach Utah some time the next day. Or I could fly standby with no guarantee of ever getting home. Joseph informed me of these unpleasant facts in a sympathetic tone. None of these options would get me back in time for work the next morning. Besides, I was travel-weary and frustrated and homesick.

Joseph read my mind. "You just want to get home. I'll tell you what, we're going to beat the system and get you there." He tapped away on his keyboard. He scribbled notes. He made phone calls. He muttered and grunted and scratched his head. For forty minutes.

Once he glanced up and said, "Don't give up hope. I'm determined to be your hero." Hero? Previous experience (which I shall relate elsewhere) with air travel personnel had rendered me a cynic. But when he casually propped up a foot after making this statement, it was a black cowboy boot that stuck out under his uniform slacks. That changed everything. Everyone knows that heroes wear cowboy boots. Hope was revived.

He tapped some more at his computer. The sound had a lulling effect. By now I had been standing in one spot for almost an hour; I was tired and my legs were stiff. I imagined myself swooning across the stainless steel luggage scale. Joseph Woodruff would reach out his tanned, notably ringless hands and catch me. He would fan my face with a ticket stub and say, "Forget your flight. I'll drive you to Utah. We'll take my white truck with the horse trailer. A palomino for each of us. I've always wanted to see the West. We'll read Tennyson by moonlight, the sky a diamond-studded velvet canvas stretching over the rugged mountaintop where we lie—"

Reality check. It was a perfectly plausible scenario until that last word. No man who wears cowboy boots knows the correct usage of "lie" versus "lay." (If you are the exception to this rule, and single, and at least moderately wealthy, please contact me immediately.)

No swoons or palominos or impeccable verb conjugation took place after all. But something even better did: after an hour, I walked away with a ticket to get home to Utah yet that night, via another airline.

I don't know how he did it, but he beat the system. He broke all the unwritten laws of airline "customer service": he truly served a customer with patience, determination, humor and humanity, at the cost of his own company's profit. I am a cynic no longer. Joseph Woodruff, you are my hero. I kneel to kiss the pointy toes of your cowboy boots.

Can You Believe I Live Here? A Photo Essay

2010-05-27T22:03:00.004-05:00

One of my all-time favorite posts is "I Can't Believe I Work Here: A Photo Essay," from a couple years ago. I had a blast putting that together. Well, here's a sequel. Not quite so humorous, but every bit as extraordinary as purple walls and caving ceilings--to those outside Utah, that is. Those of you who have spent some time here will not be surprised at all, though you may find cause to think again about something you've grown accustomed to seeing.

It's always hard to describe to "outsiders" how dominant the LDS (Mormon) culture is here in the Provo area. Where words fail, pictures may succeed. So, on a recent bargain-hunting excursion to Savers thrift store, I happened to have my camera along, and on the spur of the moment decided to capture some images from Mormonland. Here's what I came up with.

1. Decorative stack of books, including three of the four considered inspired Scripture by the LDS Church. A nice touch to any mantlepiece in Utah Valley.

2. A couple quintessential wall decorations for any Mormon family: a picture of a temple (the Jordan River Utah Temple is my best guess), and a child's mirror framed with, "I am a child of God and he loves me."

3. A popular portrait print of the Prophet Joseph Smith, founder of the LDS Church.

4. And then there are the kindly faces of the modern-day prophets.

5. "Strong Testimonies Are Reachable"! Incidentally, I just typed "testimony" in the Google search bar of my browser and 9 of the top 10 phrases that came up were references to the LDS usage of the term. It's a very Mormonish word. Also, notice the Halloween decoration. Halloween is The Holiday here; bigger than Easter and Thanksgiving put together, maybe even on the same plane as Christmas.

6. A framed verse from Doctrine and Covenants (or "D&C" if you're in the know), complete with hand pressed wildflowers.

7. "'Choose the Right'--it's more than a hymn title, more than a slogan. It's the only path to happiness. L. Tom Perry." He's an apostle in the LDS Church, and "choose the right" is a popular motto, especially among youth. "CTR" appears on rings, ties, bumper stickers, you name it. I'll admit, it's a whole lot easier to rattle off than "WWJD?" but pretty sure Allen Iverson isn't sporting a CTR wristband.

8. And since we're on an acronym kick, here are a couple LDS DVDs, OK? The bottom one is from aging Mormon boy band Jericho Road. If nothing else, they win cool band name points.

9. And lastly... there were plenty of Mormon Tabernacle Choir (or Mo-Tab) tapes, CDs and records to be found. But I selected this one because of its ironic placement on top of a Weird Al cassette-- never know what you'll find at a thrift store! Although in Utah Valley, there are some pretty safe guesses, and as you can see, they all have to do with Mormonism.

Of Starchy Tubers

2010-05-02T18:36:00.001-05:00

Sweet potatoes and yams are two different things.

This is the sort of thing an ignorant Midwesterner learns when eating lunch with Kentucky friends at an Applebee's where the manager recognizes them as fellow Southerners and wastes no time in bringing out a slice of decadent sweet potato pie he crafted himself.

Yams are more red and less stringy. The best sweet potato pie is actually made out of yams; who woulda thunk it? Next those Southerners will tell me that shoofly pie does not contain shoes and flies.

Cowley's Poem; Christ's Passion

2010-04-02T20:31:00.004-05:00

How shall I grasp this boundless thing?
What shall I play? what shall I sing?
I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed spirits above
With all their comments can explain;
How all the Whole World's Life to die did not disdain.

From "Christ's Passion" by Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)

Viewing the Cross from Mount Moriah

2010-03-31T22:33:00.002-05:00

Is there a more gripping story than Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah?

Read Genesis 22. Though the narrative comes across very matter-of-fact, these fourteen verses document one of the most horrifying stories in all of Scripture. Horrifying and beautiful—and staggering in its implications. There are compelling lessons to be drawn from it on faith and obedience, for starters.

In the context of this Easter season, however, the ancient account takes on deeper meaning. Watch this video, listen to this song... and ponder: a Father "who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him over for us all" (Romans 8:32).

So I ask again: is there a more gripping story than Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah?

Yes; it is that of God the Father and God the Son on Mount Golgotha.

(What's the big deal about Jesus dying on the cross? Watch this video.)

Sunday Drive

2010-03-28T21:37:00.003-05:00

I took a lovely Sunday afternoon drive, around Utah Lake. Here are a couple of the sweeping vistas I enjoyed. You win a special prize if you can spot the "Y" on the mountain side above Provo and BYU, in the first photo. It's white so it blends in with the snow, but don't be fooled. (Click each photo to zoom in and get the full panorama.)

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Post-Health Care Reform Resolutions

2010-03-27T21:41:00.000-05:00

Love, love, love this.

Post-Health Care Reform Resolutions (from George Grant, via Chris Fabry).

1. Pray more. 1 Thessalonians 5:17
2. Listen first. James 1:19
3. Work harder. Colossians 3:23
4. Serve others. Galatians 6:9
5. Defend life. Proverbs 24:11-12
6. Grumble less. James 5:9
7. Do justice. Amos 5:24
8. Love mercy. Micah 6:8
9. Walk humbly. Proverbs 15:33
10. Rejoice always. 1 Thessalonians 5:16
11. Trust Jesus. Revelation 19:6

Care if I share about health care and health share?

2010-03-22T21:27:00.008-05:00

There is one good thing about the health care bill passed yesterday. Yes, you read that correctly. No, I've not gone stark raving mad. And no, tomorrow I'm not going to announce that purple bunnies populate Saturn. As hard as it is to believe, hear me out on this one.

There is a built-in protection for people like me, as explained here:

The health care bill that was passed Sunday night by the U.S. House of Representatives, often referred to as the Senate bill, contains a provision that exempts members of health care sharing ministries from the bill’s requirement for individuals to purchase health insurance. This is the bill that is awaiting the President’s signature. We are continuing to watch the reconciliation process, an effort to make changes to the Senate bill after the President signs it, for anything that would take away this exemption. Please be in prayer. --Samaritan Ministries email "Health care bill update," 3/22/10.

The "House version" didn't contain this provision, and for a while it looked like I would be forced to purchase health insurance against my will. Thankfully, the Senate bill—as it stands now—will allow me to continue uninsured, as a member of Samaritan Ministries Christian Health Care Newsletter program.

A former post tells a bit about why I chose to terminate my health insurance and go the "sharing" way instead. If you are a born-again Christian, I urge you to prayerfully consider doing likewise.

Virtues of a health care sharing ministry include:
>> Low deductibles and low monthly cost. Mine are $300 and $120, respectively.
>> You and you only decide where to get the best care.
>> No such thing as "out-of-network." Every provider loves self-pays!
>> Many providers cut costs and grant discounts when they learn you are part of such a refreshingly non-bureaucratic way of paying your bills.
>> Shares go directly to meet another's needs. I heard today that $1 out of every $4 paid by an insured patient simply funds the bureaucracy of his insurance company.
>> No (unintentional) funding of unbiblical behavior. Every member of CHCN pledges to and provides references for Christian conduct: no smoking, immorality; limited or no alcohol.
>> No (unintentional) funding of bad corporate sponsorships. Did you know, for example, Aetna, Cigna and Blue Cross Blue Shield all proudly underwrite, with their members' dollars, the National Gay and Lesbian Chamber of Commerce?
>> Besides receiving checks for your medical expenses directly from other members, you receive cards and personal notes. No insurance company does that.
>> There's no medicine like the prayers of hundreds of other believers for you by name.

Remember, I write this as 1) a Christian striving to live biblically and 2) a worker in the the health care industry; but not as a person with any health needs (yet—thank God) beyond the occasional minor sickness or superficial injury, and not as someone whose employer provides insurance benefits.

Maybe it's not for everyone. Maybe there are situations when Christians should legitimately choose an independent health insurance policy instead of health care sharing. I can't think of any. But I invite feedback as we navigate this scary world of 21st century American health care together.

Euphonium and I

2010-03-12T23:24:00.005-06:00

I just returned from a concert by the Utah Premiere Brass, titled, "UPB Goes West." As gallant as "The Magnificent Seven" theme was, and as toe-tapping as Copland's "Hoedown," it was the hauntingly sweet euphonium solo on "Shenandoah" that stole my heart. So what's a girl to do when she suddenly finds herself in love with a conical-bore brass instrument? Why, write a poem, of course.

(It's better if you read it aloud.)

Euphonium, euphoria--
Oh hallelujah, gloria!

Euphonium, you fill me up,
You floor me then you soar me up.

Euphonium, euphoria--

Oh hallelujah, gloria!

Euphonium, you for me hum;
You've blown me one, you own me some.

Euphonium, euphoria--

Oh hallelujah, gloria!

Killer Questions

2010-03-04T22:07:00.008-06:00

My antenna is always up for ways and means to engage people of another worldview in meaningful, non-confrontational conversation. In case yours is too, I thought I would pass along a terrific resource from Jeff Myers of Bryan College and Summit Ministries, by way of Sue Bohlin at Probe Ministries.

Four "killer questions" to help anyone think critically:
What do you mean by that? (In other words, define your terms.)
Where do you get your information?
How do you know that's true?
What if you're wrong?

To understand how these questions work, read Sue's excellent article here.

My hunch is that these four "killer questions" have the potential to revolutionize how you interact with someone from another belief system. What I wouldn't have done to have them in my arsenal four years ago when moving to Utah! Like Sue wrote, "Sometimes, the kindest thing we can do for people is gently shake up their presuppositions and invite them to think."

Note #1: Probe Ministries has an outstanding 12-minute podcast, in case you're not able to catch the program on KEYY weekdays 4:25 a.m. and 4:44 p.m. (MST).
Note #2: Researching her article led me to discover not only is Sue Bohlin a great writer/thinker/speaker, but a calligrapher to boot. Feast your eyes on some of her beautiful work here.

MaKe iT COuNT, #3: Southwest Goes South

2010-02-01T22:42:00.003-06:00

For the first two MaKe iT COuNT posts, I highlighted a couple ideas for "buycotts", businesses that deserve your patronage. From what I've seen, they are shining examples of positive, moral corporate sponsorship. The good news: there are more like them (stay tuned)! The bad news: there are plenty of immoral corporate sponsorships out there, too.

Planned Parenthood and the ACLU do a good job of hiding their underwriters, but the National Gay and Lesbian Chamber of Commerce proudly display a long list on their website.

Levi Strauss & Co... PepsiCo... Hilton... Marriott... I was not surprised to find these, given their abysmal track record on upholding traditional American values.

But I was very disappointed to discover Southwest Airlines listed as well. Turns out, they have a whole "Gay Travel" page, boasting "We are proud to support, celebrate & serve the GLBT community [...] by featuring wonderful gay-friendly destinations, events, and special offers [...]"

Boycott? I'm not sure. Think twice? Definitely.

Where/how/when you spend--or don't spend--your money matters. MaKe iT COuNT.

In Memoriam

2010-01-24T21:37:00.001-06:00

In memoriam of the 52,008,665 American persons aborted since 1973,
the smiles they never brought,
the love they never received nor gave,
the cures for diseases they never discovered,
the social justice and humanity they never fought for,
the books they never wrote,
the masterpieces they never painted,
the inherent value of their lives never recognized,
their God-given potential never realized.

MaKe iT COuNT, #2: Nifty Thrift

2010-01-09T22:27:00.002-06:00

You can support local charities, positively affect the environment and save money--all in a trip to your local thrift store.

Mine is Savers of Orem. When I shop there (often), a portion of what I spend supports the Friends of National Multiple Sclerosis Society of Utah. That's good. Reducing solid waste? Great. Finding a mint-condition Paul Simon LP for 75¢? Now that's what I'm talking about.

Bonus: you can empty your closet's contents and fill it up again at the same place. Last I checked, you can't leave a box of sweaters at Old Navy's back door before buying a new one.

Where/how/when you spend your money matters. MaKe iT COuNT.

MaKe iT COuNT, #1: May Your Lobbys Increase

2010-01-06T22:14:00.002-06:00

Kudos to arts and crafts retailer Hobby Lobby for ads like this one, placed in hundreds of newspapers every Christmas, Easter and Independence Day since 1997.

Lend a hearty "amen" to the message of their ads by shopping your local Hobby Lobby. Or shop online the next time you need holiday decs, picture frames or scrapbook supplies.

Where/how/when you spend your money matters. MaKe iT COuNT.

Christmas Eve

2009-12-24T22:30:00.005-06:00

Great indeed, we confess,

is the mystery of godliness:

God was manifest in the flesh,

justified in the Spirit,

seen of angels,

preached unto the Gentiles,

believed on in the world,

received up into glory.

I Timothy 3:16

Have a JOY-filled Christmas.

Behold the Lamb of God

2009-12-23T22:42:00.000-06:00

Here's what I would do, if I were you. I would take about 30 minutes on Christmas Eve, grab a mug of hot cocoa, curl up, and listen to this.

In fact, I'll be doing it even though I'm not you.

It's a song cycle written by Andrew Peterson, and Christmas is at its heart. Take another look at "the Christmas story" you thought you knew so well.

God bless your quiet reflection on the old, old story of Redemption. May it never lose its luster to you.

Eye Candy...er, Cookies

2009-12-22T22:50:00.004-06:00

There's nothing that says Merry Christmas like a Snellen Chart cookie. (That's a little optical industry humor. I can do that now that I'm an honest-to-goodness certified optician--woot!--see previous post.)

I broke out the cookie cutters and lard earlier this week and whipped up a big batch of cookies for a cookie exchange and a few gifts. The eye chart was for my boss. He's an optometrist, in case that's not obvious. In fact, that's him in the upper left corner. The resemblance is pretty remarkable if I do say so myself. But then I have an eye for that sort of thing (more optical humor).

I PASSED!

2009-12-21T23:29:00.001-06:00

A big thank you to all of you who prayed for me to pass the American Board of Opticianry National Opticianry Competency Examination! Just a few minutes ago I found out I passed. Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

Wallenberg: Missing Hero

2009-12-19T13:49:00.008-06:00

I am not in the habit of writing letters willy-nilly to foreign heads of state.

However, I just sent an e-mail to Vladimir Putin, Prime Minister of Russia. It was mostly copied-and-pasted from a suggested letter I found online. It begins:

Dear President,
It has been sixty years since Raoul Wallenberg, the Swedish diplomat who saved tens of thousands during World War II was captured by the Soviet army. His fate is still unknown. One thing is certain - he is still in your country.

To my shame, a few weeks ago, I didn't know the name Raoul Wallenberg. Reading his biography by Kati Marton changed that forever. Upon completing the book last night, I felt compelled to do something--hence the note addressed to the Kremlin.

Raoul Wallenberg led a fascinating life. The son of Sweden's equivalent of the Rockefellers, he studied in America, travelled the world--and then found his calling as savior of the beleaguered Jews of Budapest. Commissioned by neutral Sweden and the U.S., he moved to Hungary's capital city near the end of World War II, and began the seemingly-impossible task of pulling Jewish men, women, and children from the deadly jaws of Adolf Eichmann and the Third Reich. He came up with a brilliant system of issuing Swedish "passports" to thousands of Budapest Jews. They were essentially worthless, but he and his staff distributed them with such bold confidence that the occupying Nazis were set back on their heels in confused hesitation. Thus he bought precious time as the Jews waited for the Allied liberation of their city.

Whenever a pogrom was organized, whenever another batch of starving Jews were rounded up for a march to the labor camps, whenever they were lined up along the Danube to be shot and drowned, the Swede would show up. In his politely firm and quietly confident manner, he would elbow past the Nazi soldiers and announce, "I am Wallenberg." And a ripple of hope would move through the masses of slump-shouldered people with ragged stars of David sewn to their thin coats. Many of them would get to go home that night, clutching their "passports". One more hellish day had been survived, thanks to Wallenberg.

There were assassination attempts, there were threatening letters from Nazi officials, there were exhausting weeks and months on end with little sleep. Perhaps worst of all there was the constant knowledge that he couldn't possibly save everyone that needed him. But Wallenberg never seemed to waver. While much of the world turned a blind eye to Hitler's atrocities, Wallenberg did something about it.

Yes, Raoul Wallenberg's remarkable life perhaps can only be surpassed by the tragic mystery of his death. Russia's "liberation" of Hungary in 1945 was just a violent transfer of power from one totalitarian regime to another. Instead of being treated like the hero that he was, Wallenberg was taken prisoner by the Red Army and transported to Moscow, under the accusation that he was a spy for the capitalist West. He was never to be seen a free man again.

The Gulag was a barely-survivable prison system at its best, but Wallenberg was treated even sterner than the usual prisoner. He was a pawn the Russians could perhaps use as future leverage with their enemies. Solitary confinement was the rule, therefore, likely with frequent interrogations and torture sessions. He was denied a trial, forbidden any communication with his family or the outside world, refused anything close to proper nutrition or hygiene.

It is undisputed that Wallenberg endured such conditions for at least two years. Beyond that, his tracks are hard to trace. Both Sweden and America were hesitant to confront Russia about the mistreatment of their diplomat. The Cold War was settling in; Stalin, and then his successor Khrushchev, were feared. Thus months turned into years and years into decades, with no real pressure put on Russia to explain the disappearance of Raoul Wallenberg.

When the Kremlin was finally forced to give an explanation, they produced a document stating Wallenberg died of cardiac arrest in prison in 1947 and his body was cremated. Why, then, do Gulag survivors report brief encounters with a Swedish diplomat named Wallenberg--as late as the mid-1970s? In fact, there is the very slimmest of possibilities he is still alive today, tucked away in some forlorn cell. He would now be 97 years old.

The Kremlin knows what really happened to Raoul Wallenberg. Or, at least they could find out; there are records somewhere. At this point, the motive is not to place blame, but to bring home a hero, to lay him to rest properly. Shouldn't his story be told? Shouldn't his life be honored and his death memorialized?

Words from a Budapest monument to Wallenberg (stolen before it could be unveiled, and never replaced): "This monument is our silent and eternal gratitude to him and should always remind us of his eternally lasting humanity in an inhuman period."

That is why I have joined the other estimated 20,000 who have sent messages to Vladimir Putin. You can, too.

Learn more about Raoul Wallenberg here.

My brush with fame and fortune. Or at least Fabry.

2009-12-18T23:59:00.002-06:00

Were you listening to Chris Fabry Live today? Did you hear Chris read an e-mail from "Karissa in Provo, Utah"? That was me!

Author and radio veteran Chris Fabry hosts a one-hour program every weekday afternoon; it is full of intelligent, balanced, compassionate discussion on a wide variety of topics that touch the Christian life.

So what was it about today's program that compelled me to fire off an excited e-mail which he read on the air a few minutes later?

The Statler Brothers.

If you missed it, and you're wondering why on earth a retired country music quartet is being talked about on Christian radio, and/or why I was so thrilled, you'll just have to listen for yourself here. ("Listen Now" or "Download Podcast", or look for Dec. 18 program.)

Of course, you can always listen live to future programs on KEYY.

Color me delighted

2009-12-03T18:48:00.007-06:00

Back when I was just getting into the whole iTunes thing (several years behind everyone else, it seems), one of the first songs I downloaded was Kristin Andreassen's "Crayola Doesn't Make a Color for Your Eyes". It's a clever, cheerful piece of songwriting, sung with delightful harmony and fabulous rhythm by her band Sometymes Why. What a happy surprise today to find this music video. Enjoy.

And the top 100 English words are.......

2009-12-01T18:41:00.002-06:00

Can you beat my modest score of 51?

It doesn't hurt to dream

2009-11-10T21:21:00.008-06:00

"In an ideal world, we could use cellulite to power our cars."
-Roy Blount Jr.

Some days are just peachy...

2009-11-09T23:22:00.004-06:00

...and then there are days like today, when you come home after a long day of work, and discover you've been wearing your dressy trouser socks inside out, all day long.

On the Biography Shelves

2009-10-09T21:03:00.006-05:00

A few days ago I was browsing in the biography section of the Provo City Library, when I noticed a small section of biographies and autobiographies of Michael Jordan. Since this is the only part of a library that is organized alphabetically by subject, the very next book was an autobiography by a Pete Jordan. Yeah, I'd never heard of him either. Turns out, his claim to fame is washing dishes in all 50 states. A no-name dish washer--shoulder to shoulder (or spine to spine) with the greatest athlete in modern history. It was too much. I had to write a poem.

Forget the fiction stacks; truth is stranger

On the biography shelves.

Here strange bedfellows, ironic twists,

Are wrought by the English alphabet.

One can only imagine the conversations

Between neighbors Brad Pitt and Pius XII,

Steve Jobs and Joan of Arc,

Leonardo DiCaprio and Dickens.

Beethoven, if he were not deaf,

Would have two ears-full of Zionism,

Sandwiched as he is between

Menachem Begin and Ben-Gurion.

Houdini lends some tardy wisdom

To Sam Houston regarding the Alamo.

It was the perfect chance, he says,

For a disappearing act.

Irving Berlin and Leonard Bernstein

Swap conducting stories

While Yogi Berra sagely inserts:

"It ain't over till the fat lady sings."

Keeping up with the Joneses

Is no small task, what with

Marion's and Smarty's races,

And George's and John Paul's songs.

Lance, Louis and Neil hold a strong arm contest.

It takes muscle to cycle 2,000 miles, yes,

But also to make that trumpet sing,

And to plant a flag in the moon's surface.

The Jackson boys (Bo and Andrew,

Alan and Michael, Peter and Stonewall)

Spend quiet nights researching genealogy,

And find their common ancestor climbed a beanstalk.

Aha!

2009-10-06T21:06:00.008-05:00

Just the other day I had one of those "aha!" moments when a song lyric you have heard a hundred times suddenly makes sense.

I have listened to Johnny Cash since I was 6, and his song "One Piece at a Time" is a favorite. It's the humorous narrative of a guy who gradually builds his own car with parts he sneaks out of the automobile plant where he works. But it took 18 years for me to figure out that the words are "I've never considered myself a thief/But GM wouldn't miss just one little piece..." For some reason I'd always thought it was "But gee, they wouldn't miss just one little piece." The accurate rendering is so much better. I'm glad it hit me.

I remember singing " I Will Praise Him" as a young kid in church services, but I could never understand why we were glad that sinners were being put to death. It was a long time before I realized the prepositional phrase in the lyric "Praise the Lamb for sinners slain" was modifying the proper noun (i.e. Jesus), not the verb. Again, accurate interpretation: soooo much better.

The first misunderstanding was a result of faulty hearing, the second of faulty interpretation. Both cases illustrate the importance of a song's words.

"Enunciate, enunciate!" has been the cry of every choir director I've had since grade school. Funny, I never heard that from my band conductors. That's because words carry very specific meaning, and the job of the singer is to communicate that specific meaning to his audience. Yes, instrumental music can (and should) convey "feeling" and bring about an emotional response. But lyrics impart a message that appeals to our emotion and intelligence.

It is worth noting that when God desired to reveal Himself to mankind, He chose to use words--not the music of a song (or a dance or a painting, for that matter). He doesn't want us to just feel something, He wants us to know something.

That Something could be a whole post by itself. Or you can read a pretty good explanation of it here.

By way of explanation

2009-10-05T21:28:00.002-05:00

My spare time is occupied by two things: A Considerable Speck and A Big Exam.

The former is my new-ish apartment. It's taking me awhile to get settled. But the settling is almost finished and soon A Considerable Speck will be open for business. Business as in game nights, debates, jam sessions, movie screenings, pie eatings, and anything else that tickles the fancy in an edifying sort of way.

The big exam I mentioned is the ABO (American Board of Opticianry) National Certifying Exam for Spectacle Dispensers, on November 15. Some of the content is about how to straighten crooked glasses, for example. But a lot of it is more like this: F = F_cyl (SIN(I))² . Yeah. Pray for me.

All of that to explain my recent absence from the world wide web. And in the immortal words of Douglas MacArthur: "I shall return."

Go North! You(ng) Reader

2009-08-21T21:38:00.003-05:00

The opening two words ("Toooothy cow!") of Book Two of the Wingfeather Saga immediately transported me back to Aerwiar, the fabulous land created by author (and amazing singer/songwriter/Christian/proprietor) Andrew Peterson. It had been a well over a year since my first visit in Book One, and I was more than ready to return. Ready to face those fearsome toothy cows roaming Glipwood Forest, ready to hear from the sea dragons again, ready to follow the young unlikely hero and his tight-knit family on their dangerous journey.

The official summary of North! Or Be Eaten:

Readers thrilled to the phantasmagorical adventures in On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness, Book One of the Wingfeather Saga. Now in Book Two, Janner, Tink, and Leeli Igiby, mom Nia, ex-pirate grandfather Podo, Peet the Sock Man, and trusty dog Nugget flee north to rebel headquarters.

Their escape brings readers to the very brink of Fingap Falls , over the Stony Mountains , and across the Ice Prairies, while villains galore try to stop the Igibys permanently. Fearsome toothy cows and horned hounds return, along with new dangers: a mad man running a fork factory, a den of rockroaches, and majestic talking sea dragons.

Andrew Peterson’s lovable characters create what FantasyBookCritic.com says made Book One “one of the best fantasy novels in a very long time,” and Book Two contains even more thrills, exploring “themes universal in nature, ranging from the classic good versus evil, to the importance of family, and burdens of responsibility.”

(Me again...) All but gone are the hilarious but distracting footnotes employed in Book One. In North! Or Be Eaten, Peterson seems to settle in to the story and tell it in earnest. Janner Igiby, the protagonist, finds himself alone for much of the story, and the character development during that stretch is superb. Action scenes were painfully slow at certain points; still, the story drew me in and kept me up long after my normal bedtime. I am counting the days till Book Three is released.

Bottom line: read it!

Thanks to Staci and company at Waterbrook Press for a pre-release copy of the book to read and one to give away. That's right, I said give away. Leave a comment, any comment, and you may just be the happy recipient. Of course, you can purchase it for yourself here. But beware the toothy cows!

Peace Activist

2009-08-20T21:15:00.010-05:00

The following is a short article I wrote for a local magazine, fleshed out a bit since I'm not under word-length constraints on my own blog (although that's not a bad idea now is it?).

Peace. What comes to mind when you read that word? Hippies and Woodstock? The Middle East? A quiet mountain scene?

Defining it is like nailing Jello to the ceiling. Peace is more than the absence of war, and it is not simply a synonym for silence. It can be a feeling but it is also a state. Influenced by circumstances but not dependent upon them, "peace of mind" is possible in the hardest of situations.

However you describe it, this much is certain: everyone wants peace. We crave it in our world, our nation, our relationships, and our own hearts.

But how? How can we find peace?

Good thing God has so much to say about it. The word "peace" is mentioned 420 times in the King James Version. Of special importance are the passages about peace between God and man.

Now, the Bible speaks the painful truth that man (both collectively and individually) in his natural state is an enemy of God (Romans 5:10). By breaking His laws, we have set ourselves against Him.

God doesn't grade on a curve: "Whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one point, he is guilty of all" (James 2:10). Nor does He allow exceptions: "For there is no difference: for all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:22-23). And His punishment is sure: "He reserveth wrath for His enemies" (Nahum 1:2).

How do you make peace with someone you have irreversibly wronged, someone who has declared you The Enemy? An apology is a good start, followed by a change in behavior. But your efforts accomplish nothing if the wronged party does not extend grace, forgiveness, reconciliation. And peace.

That's just what God did. "When we were enemies, we were reconciled to God by the death of His Son" (Romans 5:10) "And, having made peace through the blood of His cross, by Him to reconcile all things unto Himself... And you, that were sometime alienated and enemies in your mind by wicked works, yet now hath He reconciled. In the body of His flesh through death, to present you holy and unblameable and unreproveable in His sight" (Colossians 1:20-23).

The cost of peace is high—just ask our military veterans. In offering you eternal peace, God did not spare His own Son. Forget Woodstock; He is the ultimate peace activist.

Do you know God's peace?

The Greater Glory

2009-07-11T19:41:00.005-05:00

Okay, okay, I admit it: I am a lazy blogger. But when you find a quotation this great, why spend the effort needed to be all original and witty?

From Dr. Kevin T. Bauder:

Indeed, the righteousness of the law presents a vague and hazy picture that snaps into crystal clarity in the person of Christ. Now that Christ has come, I find that He is the fulfillment of the law. All of the beauties that I see dimly in the law are disclosed with brilliant precision in Jesus Christ. It is not that the law has become less glorious. Instead, its glory has been eclipsed by the greater glory of Christ. If the law is like a travel brochure with little, grainy pictures, Christ is Himself the destination.

All that I love about the law, I love about Christ to an exponentially greater degree. My delight in the law feeds directly into a delight in Christ. In a manner of speaking, Christ has taken over the place of the law for me, in the fullest, most forgiving, and most enabling sense. He himself has become my law insofar as reflecting His person and character has become my rule of life. This “law of Christ” (take that as apposition) has displaced the law of commandments and rendered them inoperative, not by canceling them, but by fulfilling them and enabling the righteousness to which they point.

In sum, I cannot despise God’s law because it offers a preliminary (if somewhat obscure) picture of Christ. I love the law for His sake. At the same time, to be fascinated with the picture rather than the person would not honor either one. Christ offers me the beauties of the law without its terrors because He has endured its terrors for me. Ultimately, He is my law (not as a different law, but as the fulfillment of all divine law). As the Holy Spirit transforms my character to resemble His, I hope for my practice to take on the majestic contours of a life that truly honors the law.

Read the entire article here.

Can't spell "flaunt" without "aunt"!

2009-06-24T23:29:00.002-05:00

I can contain my auntie-pride no longer. Introducing...Marianna!

And here's big brother Aaron keeping her entertained...

7 Things I Learned from My Dad

2009-06-20T19:20:00.008-05:00

The importance of regular oil changes.

The art of the pun.

The merits of Exedrin, Gordon Lightfoot, and The Far Side.

The value of silence and solitude.

The joy of learning.

The dignity of hard work.

The preeminence of God's Word.

20,001 Reasons to Know the 10 Commandments

2009-06-19T19:47:00.007-05:00

Reason #1: Because they come directly from the mind and heart of your Creator and Judge.

Not that we should need any more motivation than that, but here are 20,000 more reasons:

Uninsured... And Loving It.

2009-06-17T21:37:00.007-05:00

I have news for Mr. Obama: I am uninsured and I like it that way.

I've been a member of Samaritan Ministries' Christian Health Care Newsletter program for almost 2 years now, and I will never go back to health insurance. Let me rephrase that: I will never go back to health insurance... unless the government makes me.

The concept of the Christian Health Care Newsletter is refreshingly simple (funny how biblical concepts often are): every month I receive the name/address/medical concern of another member. I send a card with a personal note and a check directly to him/her. I pray for complete healing, as well as patience and peace in the midst of suffering. If I were to wind up with medical bills, the same would be done for me by other members.

Because every applicant must pledge Christian conduct, including no smoking or illicit relationships, and supply written approval from his/her pastor and another Christian, my checks do not go to support health problems that are the result of unbiblical behavior. I love that. A lot.

Since I've never had to be on the receiving end, my membership in the CHN was somewhat abstract--until this past February. My assigned need for the month was a woman who had lost her husband to a heart attack, and now had piles of hospital bills. I sent my share and prayed for her, but it wasn't till a couple weeks later that I got a note from an old college friend... it was her dad who had passed away. She had been helping her mom sort through the 600 (yes, 600!) cards from praying Christians, when she saw my name, as well as another college classmate's. Helping a friend's family through such a deep loss--that's priceless.

"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ." Galatians 6:2

Titus Got Me Thinking...

2009-06-08T21:33:00.004-05:00

The Book of Titus has captured my attention recently. Specifically, the emphasis on "good deeds"--in only three chapters, they are referenced six times. While Paul makes it crystal-clear that good deeds have nothing to do with salvation (see Titus 3:5), he is emphatic that good deeds are the high and non-negotiable calling of those who have experienced spiritual re-birth. His instruction to "be careful to engage in good deeds" (3:8) implies far more forethought and intention than I usually put in.

Anyway, last night as I was spending some time in Titus, I started recalling different instances when I have been on the receiving end of a good deed. The list would be endless if I were to recount every nice thing that someone has done for me. However, some memories stick out, and they all have a common denominator: the good deed was from a stranger.

Elsewhere I have recounted a woman's kindness on a Greyhound bus headed to Minnesota, and how it influenced me to turn around and (grudgingly at first) express the same sort of generosity on another Greyhound barreling down I-70, years later. I don't remember that woman's name, but through our conversation I learned she had a personal relationship with God, too. She was returning home from one of many visits to her father, who lay slowly wasting away in a cancer hospital. Despite her personal pain, she had made a point of packing extra blankets to share with fellow travelers. That's what I call "being careful to engage in good deeds."

Last summer, when I went to pay for a tankful of gas with a gift card that the cashier rejected, the young man behind me in line offered to take care of my bill. I could have paid with a credit card, or even cash, but by this point in my life I had learned a valuable lesson: let a man be chivalrous. I asked his name and thanked him sincerely as the cashier ran his card for both our bills. He accepted my gratitude quietly and immediately left after signing the receipt. As he drove away, the cashier informed me that my quiet benefactor was a soldier on leave. Two minutes ago I had been steaming mad at this coarse woman with greasy hair, for rejecting my gift card. But at that moment, we were drawn together in appreciation for a good deed. "God bless him," she muttered as we stood watching the soldier's pick-up drive out of sight. Yes, God bless him--whoever he is.

Then there was the scholarship from an anonymous donor while in Bible college. And the self-sacrificing way an upper-classman I didn't know from Adam sat down and took the time to get to know me, when I was previewing the college. (This one didn't stay a stranger; I count her among my closest friends today.) And the compliment a toll-booth worker paid me on a long, lonely drive. "Has anyone ever told you you have gorgeous eyes?" from a high school-age boy is a good deed that will perk up a tired female traveler for a good many mile.

This is just a sampling.

Here's to good deeds. Here's to strangers who--perhaps without realizing it--are agents of God's grace in our lives.

And Christians, we've got some work to do. Let's get busy.

What's your story of a stranger's good deed?

Marianna Joy Clark

2009-06-08T21:16:00.003-05:00

What a beautiful name, don't you think? My first niece was born early this morning. Lord willing, I'll get to meet her at Labor Day. Welcome, Marianna!

Ready or not?

2009-06-02T22:07:00.002-05:00

Let's review today's top news stories:

>> Our President proclaims this month "Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride Month."

>> An anti-abortion activist is charged with murdering abortionist Dr. George Tiller at his church yesterday.

>> A plane is confirmed to have crashed in the Atlantic, killing 228 people.

Still, God's grace endures.

So take a deep breath.

Read Lamentations 3 and maybe Daniel 9.

And bring to mind Jesus' words, still crackling with life, still ringing with hope and truth and promise:

"Yes, I am coming quickly."

Are you ready?

In Praise of Homesteaders, Prairies, and all things Midwestern

2009-05-20T23:22:00.008-05:00

Today's entry of "The Writer's Almanac" included this bit of history trivia:

"It was on this day in 1862 that President Abraham Lincoln signed the Homestead Act. Settlers who paid a filing fee of 10 dollars and agreed to live on a piece of land for at least five consecutive years were given 160 acres for free. By 1900, homesteaders had filed 600,000 claims for 80 million acres. Willa Cather's parents set out to homestead in Nebraska, Laura Ingalls Wilder's parents in South Dakota, Lawrence Welk's family in North Dakota, and George Washington Carver in Kansas."

As a lover of history, a lover of America, and especially a lover of the Great Plains, I tip my metaphorical hat to the Cathers, the Ingallses, the Welks, the Carvers, and the other 600,000+ homesteaders. My own grandfather, who I sadly never had the chance to meet, was one of those who rode a covered wagon west with his family, post-Homestead Act, to the young state of South Dakota.

It was an almost sacred quest for land. Until the Homestead Act, land ownership the world over had pretty much only been for the wealthy and well-bred, or for those who were willing to fight tooth and nail for it. And now: ten dollars for a square quarter-mile of rich soil? A tenspot for the chance to start over, make something of yourself, do what your parents had only dreamt of doing in the Old Country? Inconceivable.

Hollywood would have us believe it was just as much a quest for freedom, adventure, and that soul-longing to watch the sun set over unpeopled hills. Maybe it was for some. But I wonder if most homesteaders wouldn't have identified more with the fright Willa Cather felt upon reaching the untamed, eerily quiet prairie which was to be her home. She wrote this about the wagon journey she made as a young girl from Virginia to Nebraska:

"As we drove further and further out into the country, I felt a good deal as if we had come to the end of everything--it was a kind of erasure of personality. I would not know how much a child's life is bound up in the woods and hills and meadows around it, if I had not been thrown out into a country as bare as a piece of sheet iron."

The land grew on her, though. Later she wrote: "We come and go, but the land is always here. And the people who love it and understand it are the people who own it--for a little while." Cather loved and understood better than most this land and its people. Her books O Pioneers! and My Antonia are poignant portraits of homesteading life on "the divide" of south-central Nebraska. Another deeply moving book I came across along these lines is Giants in the Earth by O.E. Rolvaag. Of course, there's also the timeless Little House on the Prairie series. And right now I'm savoring each page of The Dry Divide by Ralph Moody, which takes place around Oberlin, Kansas a good deal after homesteading days, but tells the same story: working the land as a means of survival--and falling in love with it in the process.

If I had a dime for every complaint I've heard from easterners (or westerners too, for that matter) about the topography of the rural Midwest--well, I'd have just about enough to buy a ranch there myself. "It's so flat...there's nothing to look at...I got bored out of my mind driving across Nebraska...when I finally saw the Rockies ahead I promised myself I would never make that drive down I-70 again..."

Mindless complaining--we Americans have become experts at this. I think such remarks do a disservice to both the pioneers and homesteaders of yesterday, and the farmers and ranchers of today. Remember, one Kansas farmer feeds 129 people plus you. And though $50,000 combines have replaced teams of horses pulling headers and binders, the love for the land is still alive and well. If that love is beyond your understanding, read Cather. Or at the very least, shut up. My goodness, it felt good to write that.

I'm no agriculture guru; I didn't even grow up on a farm, which is what everyone assumes when they hear my roots are in South Dakota/Minnesota/Kansas. But I do know the reserved, stalwart people of the Great Plains have a special place in my heart. I know America is the better for its vast middle-section and its people who stick out tornadoes and drought and the lure of an easier life in the city. And I know that right now I would give anything to hear the music of wind in wheat and see 180 degrees of blue sky--the same sky that greeted the courageous homesteaders 150 years ago.

Good Thoughts for Good Friday, Part II

2009-04-10T18:28:00.004-05:00

Upon that cross of Jesus

Mine eye at times can see

The very dying form of One

Who suffered there for me;

And from my smitten heart with tears

Two wonders I confess,—

The wonders of His glorious love

And my unworthiness.

Elizabeth C. Clephane

"Beneath the Cross of Jesus"

Good Thoughts for Good Friday

2009-04-09T23:37:00.004-05:00

This is an academic look at the doctrinal implications of the death and resurrection of Christ, i.e. "the gospel." It is an excerpt from an article written by Dr. Kevin Bauder. It's lengthy but worth the read.

The gospel is not primarily about the amelioration of social, economic, cultural, or environmental evils. It may entail these things, but it is about the forgiveness of personal sins, of individual transgressions of divine law. Because God cannot overlook our sins, He has provided a substitute to bear His wrath in our place. Therefore, the gospel affirms that Christ died for our sins according to the Scriptures, that He was buried, that He rose again the third day according to the Scriptures, and that He was seen of many witnesses. [See I Corinthians 5:1-7]

The gospel deals with historical events: the death of Jesus on the cross, and the subsequent resurrection of His body from the tomb. The gospel is not an ethical code, a moral philosophy, a liturgical ceremony, or a system for self-improvement. Rather, it deals with historical events, real happenings that occurred in space and time.

The gospel, however, does not merely narrate these events. It explains them, and the explanation is what makes the difference. That Jesus died on the cross, by itself, is not even a particularly interesting fact. Thousands died on Roman crosses whose names we do not care to know. What matters is not merely that Christ died, but that He died for our sins. When this explanation is attached to the event, it constitutes a doctrine.

The same is true of Jesus’ resurrection. That a corpse might be resuscitated is certainly a scientific curiosity, but not necessarily a matter of any spiritual interest. What grips us about Jesus’ resurrection is that “Christ is risen from the dead and become the firstfruits of them that slept.” We understand that “since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead.” With Paul we affirm that “as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive.” Because of Jesus’ resurrection, we have confidence that “the last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.” These affirmations explain the significance of Christ’s resurrection. Attached to the event of Christ’s resurrection, they are doctrine.

The foregoing implies that the gospel is irreducibly doctrinal. Without doctrine, we have no gospel. In some sense, doctrine does save, because the gospel itself is doctrinal.

Moreover, the doctrines do more than simply repeat the core affirmations of the death of Christ for our sins and His resurrection from the dead. The proposition, “Christ died for our sins,” implies that we had sins, that eternal judgment for sins is approaching, that our sins required condemnation, that we could not deliver ourselves from that condemnation. The same proposition implies that Christ was a qualified sin bearer, which implies both His deity and His humanity, which in turn necessitates the virgin birth. The fact that we know these things “according to the Scriptures” implies both the authority and the veracity of the written Word of God.

These doctrines [...] are essential to the gospel. [They] must be guarded as a precious heritage.

Taking the "blah" out of "blog"

2009-04-02T22:13:00.004-05:00

Notice anything different? Yep, I'm in the midst of overhauling the ol' Utah Journal. After all, even the Mona Lisa needs dusted and hung in a new spot every now and again. It's all part of a series of blogging classes I'm taking at the library. Stay tuned, esteemed reader(s).

Cularious!

2009-03-14T23:20:00.004-05:00

I was wondering if I could figure out how to post a video; turns out to be easy as pie. Easy as eating pie, that is. Making pie is a different story. Anyhow, I know I'm biased and all, but I find this little video of my nephew, Aaron, cularious (cute + hilarious). Notice how the kid always has to have music going and has come up with his own makeshift boombox (a musical truck my folks gave him for Christmas). He has a very bright future as a deejay like his aunt or perhaps a musician; probably, he's not going to win any coordination awards (again, like his aunt).

Up next: a tongue stud?

2009-02-15T18:20:00.009-06:00

My facial hardware has increased by 200% during the last few months. The braces were very painful for the first few days, but I'm seeing huge improvements already and I'm so excited about the end result. Meanwhile, I don't eat popcorn, I carry a toothbrush with me everywhere, and I spend 15 minutes every evening flossing. I make it fun by listening to CDs I borrow from the library.

The glasses are my first pair ever, and I wouldn't even have them except that I work for an eye doctor. It's good advertising. In case in you're into such things, as I am, they're designer frames--"Ambrosia" by BCBGMAXAZRIA, with polycarbonate, anti-reflective lenses. I love them! Even though my prescription is pretty slight, it's amazing how colors "pop" and everything seems that much more brilliant when I'm wearing my glasses.

So what's next, a tongue stud? An eyebrow ring? Alas, the magnets on my fridge already slide toward me whenever I come near. I'd better call it quits on the metal for now.

The Loft

2009-01-26T18:23:00.007-06:00

Several people have asked what my apartment looks like. I humbly present... The Loft. Come visit!

Oswald, A.W. and George

2009-01-24T13:46:00.007-06:00

Three great excerpts from three great writer-thinkers:

Our Lord [...] was never suspicious, never bitter, never in despair about any man, because He put God first in trust; He trusted absolutely in what God's grace could do for any man. If I put my trust in human beings first, I will end in despairing of everyone; I will become bitter, because I have insisted on man being what no man can ever be--absolutely right. Never trust anything but the grace of God in yourself or in anyone else.

--Oswald Chambers

What is generally overlooked is that truth as set forth in the Christian Scriptures is a moral thing; it is not addressed to the intellect only, but to the will also. It addresses itself to the total man, and its obligations cannot be discharged by grasping it mentally. Truth engages the citadel of the human heart and is not satisfied until it has conquered everything there. The will must come forth and surrender its sword. It must stand at attention to receive orders, and those orders it must joyfully obey. Short of this any knowledge of Christian truth is inadequate and unavailing.

--A.W. Tozer

There is a great difference between "I wish I were" and "I would like to be." To be content is not to be satisfied. No one ought to be satisfied with the imperfect. It is God's will that we should contentedly bear what He gives us. But at the same time, we can look forward with hope to the redemption of the body.

--George MacDonald's character "Polwarth" in The Curate's Awakening

Only Nuns Change Habits Overnight

2009-01-04T15:19:00.007-06:00

It's a privilege to participate in blog tours of newly-released books from WaterBrook/Multnomah. When this book was introduced, I leapt at the chance to review it, for two reasons:

1. I have some bad habits that I despise, and I want to be free. (And if you think I'm going to bare my soul with the specifics here, you've got another thing coming.)

2. If there's one thing I love in this fallen world, it's the clever, humorous usage of the English language. The book's title is precisely that--as are the chapter titles (e.g. "What if the Hokey Pokey Really IS What It's All About?").

What I missed in the hurried sign-up process was the subtitle: "52 Amazing Ways to Master the Art of Personal Change." But I figured it out quickly when the book arrived and I began reading: this book was not going to change my bad habits, it was going to tell me how to change them.

Rats! That takes work. And time. And painful honesty with myself. And failure before success. And more work. And lots and lots more time.

OK, I'll admit one (and only one!) of the bad habits I'm aching to change: procrastination.

Yet, here it is, January 4... and the book review was supposed to be posted by January 2. I would laugh at the irony, except I'm too sick of this habit to laugh.

The thing is, I don't procrastinate everything. And I didn't used to be that way...it started in college. And I bet I could change if I really tried. Besides, it's never gotten me in too much trouble, so how bad of a habit can it be?

OK... Rationalizing my mistakes. That's another bad habit I have, I admit. (But seriously, this is the last admission you people are dragging out of me.)

But since it's already obvious, I may as well come to terms with my awful habit of rambling when I write, and using excessive punctuation and sentence fragments. And then there's my addiction to limericks...

I am only on #20 of the 52 Ways to Master the Art of Personal Change (did I mention the habit of reading too slowly?), but I'm ready to recommend it if you, like I, are ready to change. Just get ready to roll your eyes at the author's corny humor along the way. The 52 suggestions Karen Scalf Linamen offers vary from so-simple-I-can't-believe-you're-getting-paid-to-write-that, to agonizingly difficult. I've done a couple and they work. Oh, they don't miraculously make you brush your teeth after every meal like you've always meant to...or stop judging others by appearances...or start praying for God's will and meaning it... but they do get you re-evaluating your habits and beginning the process of change.

Thank you, Mrs. Linamen, for writing the book I need. I just wish you would do the work of changing my habits.

Sigh. Yes, laziness is another bad habit I have...

Only Nuns Change Habits Overnight can be purchased here: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400074002

A Case of Mistaken Identity

2008-11-23T14:54:00.003-06:00

Here's a little something I wrote for a magazine that KEYY advertises in, which goes to senior citizens in Utah Valley...

It was an unfortunate case of mistaken identity.

I was 11 years old and was shopping in a Pamida store, when I found something to show my brother. He didn't come when I called. Since I could see him from the corner of my eye, I knew he was ignoring me. "Tim!" I said again, "Look at this!" Annoyed when he still didn't respond, I walked toward him. He was bent over, facing away from me, the seat of his pants temptingly within reach of my foot.

I like to think I didn't kick; I prefer to recall it as a slight tap with the toe of my shoe. Regardless, my brother jumped and spun around with a breathless "Excuse me?"—except it wasn't my brother. It was a middle-aged woman in a blue Pamida smock. My brother was two aisles away, I discovered as I ran toward the door, my face flaming.

Embarrassing, to say the least. I have never entered that Pamida since, afraid the woman in the blue smock will recognize the source of her recurrent nightmares.

Sometimes mistaken identity isn't so funny; sometimes it goes far beyond mere embarrassment.

In Matthew 16, Jesus asked His disciples what people were saying about Him. They replied, "Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets."

Talk about mistaken identity! Some Israelites were convinced Jesus was a man who had died centuries before. Others weren't quite sure but admitted He was a bit out-of-the-ordinary. They were impressed with His miracles, and His peculiar teachings gave them something to talk about over supper. That's as far as it went.

Unperturbed, Jesus asked, "But whom say ye that I am?" Peter spoke up: "Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God."

What would you have said? Who is Jesus to you? A religious teacher? An irrelevant historical figure?

Later, Jesus explained His identity this way: "I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me" (John 14:6).

Peter got it right. Jesus was--and still is--the one and only Son of God, the one and only way God has provided to come to God. His identity is all-important and non-negotiable. So are the consequences for your beliefs about Him.

Me, Myself and I AM

2008-11-08T15:36:00.003-06:00

One Sunday morning when I was twelve, I was sitting in a church service, full of pre-teen angst.

I am sorry to say I was not listening to the sermon. No, I was thinking how lonely, unfair, and--above all --how misunderstood my life was.

I have forgotten why, but that particular morning I was ready to boil over. It was then that an infinitely patient God, knowing I wasn't paying attention to my dad's preaching, placed a thought in my head: journal.

Of course, I thought it was my own clever idea. As soon as I got home that afternoon, I raided Mom's closet for a notebook. The victim I chose had a dark blue cover to reflect my mood, and it was college ruled so I could cram all my self-righteous assertions into its unsuspecting pages.

I wasted no time. Finally, I thought, I have an outlet for self-expression. Make that selfish expression. Every time my fragile feelings got hurt or the world didn't treat me with the respect I deserved, I marched to my bedroom, whipped out my notebook, and wrote. And wrote... and wrote.

I'm not proud of the way I began journaling. But I'm thankful, oh-so-thankful, the Lord not only gave me the idea, but also patiently guided my writing. The blue notebook was followed by the green one, and then the red one... Likewise, immature rants gradually gave way to a more balanced perspective. I began documenting my aspirations and honest soul-searching; then my meditations on God's Word and written prayers.

My journals chronicle my spiritual journey, and I've kept all of them. They contain written expression of thoughts and ideas just between God and me. But sometimes I go through a period when the journal gathers dust and the pen lies still. I'm not sure what brings on dry spells, but I do know I am not the same when I'm not journaling regularly. It means I'm not internalizing that which the Lord is teaching me.

Well, I've had a dry spell recently, and I've needed a jumpstart. Enter a remarkable little book:

Yes, I admit it. All of this has been leading up to a book recommendation.

Me, Myself and I AM is a sleek little hard-back book that packs a punch. All it does is ask questions. But when those questions are probing questions about your relationship with the Lord, all you need is a little honesty and you're well on your way to some serious introspection. Warning: you may not like what you discover about yourself. I'm on page 48, and I've had a few surprises, veteran journaler that I am.

Not all the questions are life-changing, granted. But who doesn't like listing their favorite foods and cool Christmas presents?

Then you turn the page and have to confront this one: "Three things I do currently that I am not proud of." Or how about, "The word that best describes Jesus' place in my life is..."

Bottom line: this book, coupled with the all-important honesty-factor and a little time, is an effective way to get to know yourself and your relationship with Jesus for what it really is. Even after I make it though page 83, I've got plenty of fodder for journaling on my own again.

Me, Myself and I Am can be purchased here: http://www.christianbook.com/

Want a FREE copy for yourself? Leave me a comment. Any comment.

Upon coming face-to-face with one's insignificance in the Information Age

2008-11-08T15:13:00.003-06:00

I just realized it has been over two months since my last post. Surprisingly, the internet seems to be humming along just fine without me. No desperate pleas from "Utah Journal" readers in withdrawal, no black holes in cyberspace that only a post from Karisa can fill. *sigh* The truth is, I've wanted to blog about several topics or events recently, but the absence of (1) a computer at home, (2) an internet connection, and (3) time have prevented me. Either that, or given this fair-weather writer excuses not to write. Let's stick with explanation number one. Anyhoo, this is simple proof that I'm still kicking. And yes, another post is in the works.

Onward and upward!

"Far more abundantly"

2008-08-30T16:40:00.005-05:00

Fact: I've never worn glasses (except a "fake" pair for fun on occasion, and sunglasses from the dollar store).

Fact: I've never worn contact lenses (and the very thought of sticking a foreign object to my eyeball makes my stomach turn).

Fact: I haven't had an eye exam since I was approximately 8 years old.

Fact: During a job interview for an optician position, I had to ask what an optician is.

Fact: I got the job.

Does anyone else find this as absurd as I do?

What's next--a phone call from Bon Jovi, asking me to play clarinet in his band? Number one, I couldn't tell you a single tune Bon Jovi does, a claim I am actually quite proud of. Number two, in the handful of times I've tried, I couldn't coax one sound out of a woodwind. Not to mention that Bon Jovi is about as likely to add a clarinet to his band as Bach is to rise from his grave and take up the Vox 12-string. And number three, how did Bon Jovi get my phone number, anyway?

Enough dumb metaphoric illustration. The point is: I shouldn't have gotten that job.

Oh, and by the way, out of the almost forty jobs I applied for, it's one of the highest paying.

And the hours are perfect.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think,

according to the power that works within us,

to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus

to all generations forever and ever.

Amen.

Ephesians 3:20-21

Calling all discriminate readers on a wild goose chase...

2008-08-26T17:43:00.005-05:00

My "to-read" book list is long and getting longer. So many good books, so little time, so many distractions. But a new book just caught my eye and has trumped some other reads that have been on my list for a while. On deck:From the introduction: “Celtic Christians had a name for the Holy Spirit–An Geadh-Glas, or ‘the Wild Goose.’ The name hints at mystery. Much like a wild goose, the Spirit of God cannot be tracked or tamed. An element of danger, an air of unpredictability surround Him. And while the name may sound a little sacrilegious, I cannot think of a better description of what it’s like to follow the Spirit through life. I think the Celtic Christians were on to something….Most of us will have no idea where we are going most of the time. And I know that is unsettling. But circumstantial uncertainty also goes by another name: Adventure.”

Is it any wonder this book caught my eye? The last two years, and especially the last few months, have been full of uncertainty for me. Job, home, relationships, ministry, finances: all have been up in the air and only very recently have a couple of these been somewhat resolved. In light of this, the concept of the Christian life as Adventure is intriguing. I yearn for a God-glorifying attitude in the face of constant circumstancial instability. It's my hope that this book will help me find and keep that.

At surface, I concur with Mark Batterson's premise; whether I find his conclusions to hold up to Biblical truth is yet to be determined. Here's where YOU come in to play. I want a reading partner. In fact, I have a copy of Wild Goose Chase to give away. If you're interested, leave a comment here recommending a book you've recently read.

Moving Day!

2008-08-05T10:29:00.006-05:00

On Friday, I moved out of KEYY and into a wonderful apartment one mile away. I had lots of great help...

The entire thing took less than 90 minutes! Now it's the cleaning/unpacking/furnishing/settling in that's taking a while. But the guest room is ready... so come visit!

VBS: Part the Second

2008-07-28T22:44:00.004-05:00

Provo Bible Church's vacation Bible school was held for five mornings last week at a park downtown. That meant some unusual distractions: bugs...traffic...and the constant group of homeless guys who were amused spectators for our activities. Who knows, maybe they heard the gospel, too!

I can't resist the urge to rhyme any longer.

2008-07-12T21:38:00.004-05:00

Oh the fun and oh the joy since I stumbled upon RhymeZone.com!

I once found a site on the net,
A page that I'll never forget.
And now I don't fret;
There's no cause for sweat
When ending a line with "Tibet".

Limericks usually don't lend themselves to more serious subjects, but I feel a need to vent a bit on this apartment hunt:

A roof and a sink and four walls
(The sink can be really quite small)--
That's all that I need
(I'm not into greed);
I just want a place "home" to call.

Sites that I cite that you should sight

2008-07-06T21:53:00.004-05:00

Love means sharing. And it is because I love you, dear reader (notice the lack of an "s" there), that I offer the best I have. Well, other than my car and my Johnny Cash LP collection--but do you really think I'm gonna part with that? Come on.

These are three or four websites I've discovered recently that are worth passing on. Finding each was like discovering a diamond in the middle of an endless dewdrop-covered web. That metaphor needs some work, but in the meantime I present:

RhymeZone... Where has this site been all my life? (Oh yeah, Al hadn't invented the internet yet when I was a child.) Type in a word, hit "Search" and boom, you've got a list as long as Santa's of every word and phrase that rhymes with it. The drawback is no weird proper nouns... I tried "Karisa" and the search rejected it. "Clark," on the other hand, brought forth such results as "spark," "remark," "Yellowstone National Park," and the ever-useful "cabbage bark". I don't know about you, but I feel a whole new inspiration to write limericks. Stay tuned.

FolkAlley is a site devoted to folk music in all its forms, bluegrass to blues, Woody Guthrie to Nickel Creek. Not that I endorse all the political innuendo-laden music, but if you're willing to take it with a grain of salt, this site is a gem. Here you can find a page offering hours of free music from scads of musicians of most every genre, recorded live.

Tokens is something to keep an eye on. It's a fresh and freshly-conceived approach to a broadcast performance. Perhaps it could be described as Garrison Keillor meets C.S. Lewis. The host describes it as "part theology lecture, part cultural analysis, part old-time radio show, part good conversation, part good music; all of it serious, and all of it, for us at least, fun, and we trust it will be fun for you, too." The jury is still out, but what I've heard I like. A lot.

And since it is quite possible that you, the one long suffering reader of my blog, have as much interest in music or poetry as in the textile exports of Slovakia, I offer you www.isitchristmas.com

Camp!

2008-06-29T16:42:00.003-05:00

What a great week at Pioneer Bible Camp, perched on a mountain overlooking Eden, UT! Fifty-one girls attended, and several trusted the Lord Jesus as their Savior. I had a blast with these ladies! The girl in the first picture is named Olivia. She always had the memory verses down and showed a lot of interest during each chapel time. Olivia told me she had trusted Christ when she was 3 years old...in her church's bathroom.

I was the camp speaker--an overwhelming task, but God is good! He gave me the energy and creativity when I felt totally dry. Most of the girls were great listeners, answering questions and getting involved in the stories and topics. I think their favorite thing was during my telling of the story of Ruth, I asked them to say, "Oo-la-la!" every time I said the name of Boaz. A number of girls commented on the morning chapel stories about one of my missionary heroes, Mary Slessor. She was a 19th century Scottish missionary to Nigeria. They loved the crazy adventures Mary got into, like fighting an aggressive hippo with a frying pan. My prayer is that some of these girls give their lives to the Lord's service, like Mary did. It truly is the life of no regrets.

Of course, I also took it upon myself to teach the girls how to make a respectable shadow bunny...

VBS (Very Busy Schedule?)

2008-05-29T16:14:00.004-05:00

Last week, my home church hosted a vacation Bible school. It made for busy days, but I'm glad I was home to be a part of it. I taught the youngest group, ages 4-6, during the Bible lesson time, and also helped with crafts.

I was also The Missionary--meaning I told the kids a little about my ministry in Utah every day. They had a contest, girls against boys, to raise money for my gas back to Provo. It was a weight contest; every day the girls would put their money in a bucket on one side of a scale and the boys in the other. On the last day of VBS, one boy brought a grocery bag full of pennies! Altogether, the kids contributed about $220! So I'll have plenty of gas money for my trip west next month, and even some left over to hit every Wendy's between Hoisington and Provo. Love those Frostys!

A Keeper, for sure

2008-05-02T20:50:00.007-05:00

In my e-mail inbox, I have a folder labeled "Keep What is Worth Keeping." (It's a line from a poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik...but that's a whole other post.) The folder is for non-personal-correspondence that I consider worthy of hanging onto and even referencing in the future. Once in a blue polka-dot moon, an e-mail makes it into that folder that was forwarded from my mom. She likes to send me e-mails with subject lines like "Fwd: 10 More Uses for Vinegar!" and "Fwd: Hints to Protect your Credit Card Account." Most get deleted with hardly a glance (no hard feelings, Mums, if you're reading this), but like I said, the rare informative and legitimate message is worth keeping.

Otherwise, approximately 95% of my "keeper" e-mails is comprised of messages I've received through a gem of an e-mail subscription. It's called "In the Nick of Time," and it's sent by Dr. Kevin T. Bauder, president of Central Baptist Theological Seminary in Minneapolis, MN.

Dr. Bauder's premise for "In the Nick of Time" is this: "American Christianity needs leaders. American Christianity needs Christian leaders. Christian leaders explain the Scriptures, bringing them to bear upon life's urgent questions. Christian leaders exemplify the life of faith, finding their ultimate satisfaction in God alone. They unite intellectual discipline with ordinate affection, turning their entire being toward the love of God."

To the noble end of developing such leaders, Dr. Bauder (and the occasional guest contributor) pens essays examining relevant and often controversial topics. Past subject matter includes Christians and theater, Christians and scholarship, Christians and educational choices, observing the Sabbath, church organization, and church planting.

I'm no philosopher or theologian--but I do want my faith to comprise more than just a set of Sunday school lessons. In the last two years especially, I have gotten to know scads of folks who blindly believe what they've been taught, with little or no real thought. I shudder to think of my faith resembling that in any way. That's why I started subscribing to "In the Nick of Time" about a year ago. I truly desire to "unite intellectual discipline with ordinate affection, turning my entire being toward the love of God." I hope you do, too.

Of course, I must reference the other splendid element of these e-mails: poetry! Dr. Bauder dusts off a short sampling of classic Christian verse for the close of each e-mail. What depths of wisdom (and entertaining spellings!) lie in the poems of John Bunyan, William Cowper and the like! Worth reading...worth keeping.

You can subscribe to "In the Nick of Time" or check out the archives here (copy and paste into your browser's address bar): http://www.centralseminary.edu/index.asp?m=674

Red Green would be proud

2008-04-29T19:14:00.004-05:00

My Sheltie, Trixie, had surgery on Friday to remove a softball-sized tumor from her shoulder. There is a whole lot of stitches and bare skin under all that bandaging. There's also the bare spot on her front leg... I'm not sure what the vet was thinking; maybe he wanted to give her a poodle 'do? The careful observer will also notice Trixie is sticking out her tongue. It's as if she's daring us to mock her goofy looks. After all, it is a far cry more dignified than the previous version:
The duct tape was Dad's idea, after Trixie started chewing on the bandages. Do not try this at home, kids. Duct tape, as it turns out, is merciless when it comes into contact with hair. When we went to the vet's to get Trixie's dressing changed yesterday, he had to cut a good bit more of her hair off. Vets have nightmares about pet owners like us, I'm sure. Pets have nightmares about pet owners like us. But at least Red Green would be proud.

The Case of the Enigmatic Doctor

2008-04-25T18:08:00.010-05:00

[Editor's note: Here's a story I wrote for the newspaper. Cheyenne Bottoms is the nearby wildlife refuge and wetlands.]

A few days ago, I didn't know the difference between the calls of a speckle belly goose and the snow goose. I had no idea Barton County is plagued by out-of-state poachers. I never realized one of the downtown pole art features a pair of greyhounds. And I certainly didn't know what went into a Redneck Tour of Cheyenne Bottoms.

Thanks to some great local activities last weekend, I have been enlightened.

This was my first Wetlanders Festival and I was impressed. From the Waterfowl Calling Championship to the demonstration by Game Warden Brian Hanzlick and his dog Alley to the pole art hunt to the Redneck Tours—everything was well done and well-attended.

I appreciated the educational bent of the Festival and I certainly increased my knowledge of Cheyenne Bottoms, hunting, local talent, and all things redneck.

But I'm still in the dark on one thing: who is Doc Payne?

His was the first stop for the Redneck Tour Bus (a pontoon boat on a trailer, towed by a very un-redneckish sleek Chevy truck) I rode, along with five other tourists and our worthy tour guide, Bubba. Doc Payne was manning an antique cannon on the side of the road. There was a sign propped up against it advertising the doctor's medical services—all three of them.

Apparently, Doc Payne specializes in the fine art of pulling teeth. As we watched, he brandished a pair of 14-inch rusty pincers and generously offered to take care of any toothaches. From the looks of Bubba's “redneck teeth” (or lack thereof), Doc Payne had made a profitable career choice.

I think we upset Doc Payne by turning down his tooth-pulling services, because he kept mumbling and waving a cannon ball at us. He seemed to think he would find comfort in the dirty glass bottle he pulled out, however. He pointed to the one lens of his glasses painted red—which, through Bubba's interpretation, we were made to understand was a result of the “red-eye” in his whiskey bottle.

Finally, Doc Payne was left waving and muttering in the road, as the tour bus carried us across the Bottoms to more redneck adventures.

That was Saturday. On Monday I uploaded my photos from the digital camera and began sorting through the pictures I had snapped during the Festival. I came across a good portrait of Doc Payne...and that's when the mystery deepened.

I e-mailed the photo to Rod Harms, who had signed me up for the Redneck Tours, asking him to identify Doc Payne. Shortly after that, I received a call from Gene Manweiler, owner of Hoisington's Manweiler Chevrolet dealership. Rod had forwarded my e-mail to him.

Gene had done much of the work coordinating the Redneck Tours (hence the sleek Chevy truck) and had called to help answer my question. Except he couldn't. Turns out, Gene didn't know who was underneath Doc Payne's wig. The character's appearance alongside the Bottoms backroad had been a surprise to him, too. He had played along with the Doc, though, for the sake of us tourists—but he does admit he couldn't understand half of what the man had mumbled through his fake beard.

When the last tour bus left, the Redneck Tours staff shed their plastic teeth, tore down the misspelled signs along the trail, and met back at Gene's home overlooking Cheyenne Bottoms—all except Doc Payne. No one knew who he was or where he had gone, Gene said.

Later on Monday, another e-mail appeared in my Inbox, indicating Gene had discovered the identity of the mysterious Doc Payne. However, he said the Doc didn't want to reveal who he is—a request Gene was honoring. Those rednecks stick together like honey on a biscuit. The only hint I have is that Doc Payne is “a prominent local citizen.”

The man was so well-disguised—even his voice was altered—that it could have been anyone. I went home and took a hard look at my own dad, scrutinizing his face for the tell-tale marks of a tie-on beard. Not that I'm good at seeing through a disguise... It had taken me a while to realize Bubba was Gene Manweiler himself, underneath an unkempt Willie Nelson-esque hairpiece.

So I'm left with a mystery. And since I've failed at my journalistic duty of uncovering the truth, I turn to my meager skills as a poet:

There once was a man in disguise
With beard on his face and shades on his eyes
He won't tell his name;
He thinks it's a game!
If so, it's the kind I despise.

This doc has me out on a limb.
Is he Bob? Is he John? Is he Jim?
He makes my job hard
(I'm reporter, not bard!)
A Payne in the Bottoms--that's him!

I Can't Believe I Work Here: A Photo Essay

2008-04-23T18:47:00.022-05:00

The newspaper office where I work part-time is...um...interesting. Some things about the place crack me up. Other details would horrify me if I stopped to think about them, but I try to do that as little as possible. Anyway, here's a glimpse into the building where I spend about 20 hours each week...

1. This is the office where I work. To avoid looking at the unbearable clutter, I sometimes close my eyes and curl up in a fetal position on the 40-year old vinyl desk chair.
(Yes, the wall is purple. The former owner was a huge K-State fan.)

2. We have this great filing system for our back issues. Patent pending.

3. At some point in the building's long and grim history, an individual (I'm guessing a pre-pubescent girl, from the looks of the exclamation point) cheerfully set out to bring order to the chaos. Just one box into the process, she was apparently overcome by the hopelessness of the situation. I can't blame her. Her efforts are preserved and stand as an enduring monument to the frailty of the human spirit.

4. Something tells me that even if the bathroom sink were to give forth water with any sort of regularity, it would not be the sort of water one would want to wash one's hands in.

5. This is the ceiling directly above the toilet. The ceiling panels are being held up by the light fixture--none too secure itself. It does lend a sense of urgency when doing one's business.

6. I should have laid a coin beside this rat trap to give size perspective. It's massive. For months, I had vaguely wondered the dark reason for its existence. Today, a lady who used to work here told me the story. One day 5 years ago, she heard noises in the bathroom; this led to the capture of what she claims was "a cat-sized rodent." Since no others of this size have shown up, she thinks it probably wasn't a rat; her guess is a renegade prairie dog. At any rate, the trap has stayed since that day.

7. This is a yellowed document nailed to the wall, titled "Safety and Health Protection on the Job." One line reads, "The Williams-Steiger act requires that each employer furnish his employees a place of employment free from recognized hazards that might cause serious injury or death." I can't help but wonder if Mr. Williams and Mr. Steiger didn't mean to imply caving ceilings and gargantuan rat traps as forms of "recognized hazards." Actually, I think the constant, insurmountable clutter is more hazardous to my mental health.

8. Oh the irony of it. The irony! This sign hangs high on a wall--faded, smeared with dirt, splattered with paint--but still boldly proclaiming its long-forgotten message: Neatness Counts!

Clarks, Clarks, and more Clarks

2008-04-05T15:03:00.003-05:00

March 18, 2008 Kristine, Grandma, Mom, me; Tim, Aaron, Grandpa, Dad.

A suggestion. And a strong one, at that.

2008-04-03T19:51:00.010-05:00

Hey you! Yeah, you. The one staring at the monitor.

Mind if I give you some advice?

It is simply this:
Keep a reader's journal.

You thought I was going to advise changing your underwear daily or taking vitamin C supplements, huh? I'll leave the tidbits of common sense living to your mother; I want to address this void in your life that you probably didn't know you have. After all, I myself hadn't even heard of such a thing until March 6, 2004. Oh, I'd been keeping track of books I'd read ever since I was 12 or so...but it wasn't until that blustery day in Virginia Beach that I saw an actual hard-cover book entitled The Reader's Journal. It had a little nick on the cover and had thus been relegated to the clearance table--which is the only place to shop in bookstores, if you ask me. (Henry Ward Beecher once exclaimed, "Where is human nature so weak as in the bookstore!" But I wonder if even Hank himself wouldn't find today's book prices a bit steep.)

I am sure there are many different versions of reader's journals out there and I just didn't know it. I'm glad this area of ignorance didn't last any longer than age 21.

Let me tell you about my reader's journal, which quickly became one of my most beloved books itself. It is divided into 11 sections, each cleverly titled with a famous work of literature which describes the purpose of that section.

One section I use often is Great Expectations. It is there that I record books I would like to read. I'm always on the lookout for good reads and when I hear of one I add it to my list of great expectations. Then I take my reader's journal with me whenever I visit the library. Gone are the days of aimless wandering amid bookshelves thinking, "I wish I could remember that one author's name who wrote that one book I heard about!"

Another section (Sense and Sensibility) is for detailed records of the books I have read and my thoughts about them. Thus, with the flip of a page, I can find what I was reading in October, 2006: Giants in the Earth by O.E. Rolvaag ("Great character development and interesting storytelling techniques. Reminded me of Willa Cather's work--the land, Dakota territory, was such a big part of the plot. Made me long for the prairies...") My dad, for example, never watches a movie or reads a book twice. But I return to favorite books over and over again and its always like a reunion with an old friend. With my reader's journal, I have a record of my dearest book-friends.

Then there's Kidnapped, for recording lists of the books I have borrowed or lent. (If you borrow a book from me and don't return it: beware!) And there are other sections for recording addresses of bookstores or libraries, memorable quotations from favorite books, lists of books I have given or received as gifts, and those I have added to my every-growing personal library.

The great Francis Bacon wrote, "Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some to be chewed and digested." Keeping a reader's journal, I believe, helps one be aware of every bite and savor the best.

It's a hard life, blogging.

2008-03-30T20:51:00.004-05:00

If you blog, you can identify: "I really want to write a post. But what?!" You look around the room for inspiration. The framed cross-stitch, the old lamp, the clock ticking... Nothing's coming. Maybe you could write about something you did today. Let's see...shower, job, supper. Not much to work with. Oh, it rained today. Rain is always inspiring to the melancholy artist-types. Write a poem about rain! Hmmm..."I see the lights of the city gleam through the rain and the mist, and a feeling of sadness comes over me that my soul cannot resist." No, that's taken: Longfellow. Try again..."I have walked out in rain--and back in rain. I have outwalked the furthest city light." Rats, that's Frost. Huh, never noticed the bardic connection between rain and city lights. Maybe there's something there worth exploring...

Light and rain,
Rain and light.
One is wet,
The other bright.

Bob and Henry,
Henry and Bob.
Both wrote poems
I want to rob.

It's not Pulitzer-worthy--you know that. But that orange "Publish Post" button has a tempting glow. You can go to bed satisfied if you just post something. Tomorrow, you will roll your eyes at it...maybe even delete it. But tonight, you will sleep the sweet sleep of the published blogger.

Happy Resurrection Day!

2008-03-23T16:39:00.005-05:00

De
ath
is swallowed
u
p
in
v i c t o r y !

And the winner is...

2008-03-22T20:39:00.002-05:00

It's official...Carol Floyd is the winner of a free copy of On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness by Andrew Peterson! Her odds were good: 1 out of 3 (one entered via e-mail, in case you're keeping track). This evening I threw three slips of paper into one of my dad's baseball caps and asked my mom to do the honors. First, however, I had to explain to her what the drawing was about--a terrible blow to my pride to think that my own mother doesn't even read my obscure little blog. I consoled myself with the fact that Bach's compositions were not widely appreciated until after his death. But I digress. Congratulations to my friend Carol and best wishes for happy reading!

A Rare Recipe: book review of "On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness"

2008-03-16T13:11:00.011-05:00

Singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson has given about nine years and seven albums-worth of proof that he is a wordsmith par excellence with a heart uncommonly in tune to eternal truth and mystery. I was not surprised, therefore, to find his first full-length book to be well-written, creative, and full of biblical concepts like forgiveness, redemption, loyalty and servanthood. Indeed, I would have expected no less.

What I wasn't quite expecting is the downright silliness on the surface of AP's story. I say "on the surface" because it quickly becomes obvious that, though AP, with a boyish adventurousness, invites his readers to share in the quirky world of Aerwiar--complete with talking lizards, snot-wax candles, toothy cows, and a revolting recipe for "maggotloaf"--his real concern is that his readers are given cause to ponder the eternal truths of our own world. In fact, as I read, I began to envy AP for the incredible fun he must've had writing this book! He peppers thoughtfulness with humor, deep truths with goofy fantasy. That's a nearly impossible recipe to pull off--even trickier than mixing up a batch of maggotloaf!--but Andrew Peterson does it as well as it can be done, I dare say.

Whether or not you fully embrace the wacky humor of the author, you will be drawn into the story and amazed at the twists the plot takes toward the end of the book. One of the mysteries I figured out a few pages before the characters did--and when it hit me, I actually had to lay aside the book for a minute to process the stunning and glorious implications. Later, a conversation among the main characters prompted tears on my part, as it gave me a glimpse into the beautiful mystery of self-sacrificing love, epitomized in Christ's love for the Church.

Some mysteries remain with the closing of the book. What tragic secret does Arthram harbor about his past? What will happen to the Igiby children? Will the sea dragons sing again? These questions will be answered in the coming installments of "The Wingfeather Saga," and along the way I look forward to lots more laughs, a few more tears, and plenty of food for thought--none of it maggotloaf-type fare!

On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness can be purchased here: http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1400073847

And now the cool part...
I was privileged to secure two pre-release copies of On the Edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness for a blog tour of the book. One copy has my name on it and it shall remain in my library for ever and always...but the other copy is up for grabs! Leave a comment on this post and I will randomly choose a comment-er on Saturday, March 22, as the happy recipient of the book. I'll send it straight to your home and you can begin "The Wingfeather Saga" for yourself!

Kingdom Kids

2008-03-07T19:48:00.013-06:00

The following is an article I wrote for today's Hoisington Dispatch.

Kingdom Kids Offers Fun with a Purpose

Three minutes isn't long, but it's enough to transform the Hoisington Bible Church building every Tuesday afternoon. At 3:00, the foyer is empty, the fellowship hall downstairs is neatly lined with rows of chairs, and the adjacent table is spread with cookies and forty cups of Kool-Aid. By 3:03, however, the first wave of kids has arrived from school, chattering and laughing and jostling. By 3:30, backpacks fill the foyer, kids fill the chairs, and there are no more cookies to be seen.

Welcome to Kingdom Kids, a weekly after-school Bible club for children in kindergarten through 6^th grade. For the next ninety minutes, the kids will hear a Bible story, learn a Bible verse, play games, and sing songs—all of it what leader Roland Broeder likes to call “fun with a purpose!”

This is the sixth year that Hoisington Bible Church has been holding a kids' club. “Our purpose from the beginning,” Pastor Gary Clark explains, “was to make boys and girls aware that God has a plan and purpose for their lives, and that plan and purpose begin with a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. We want the kids to be 'kingdom kids': to know God and be a part of His family.”

In addition to Broeder and Pastor Clark, there are four regular staff from the Church and several others who help as needed. Some Church members give to fund the program; others provide supplies for the snack time that begins every Kingdom Kids club.

Predictably, “snack time!” is one enthusiastic answer you'll get if you ask the kids what their favorite part of Kingdom Kids is. Other responses include, “the games,” “singing,” “playing Zonk” (a popular review game), “meeting new people,” and “learning about Jesus.”

Broeder explains his favorite part of Kingdom Kids using a story. “Three or four weeks ago, there was a little girl who got hurt, but she told me she didn't want to go home because she wanted to hear about God. It melted my heart! Hopefully, we're changing lives for eternity—and in the present, too.

Changing lives is a constant theme of the club. As the kids hear the adventures of Samuel, Saul and David from the Old Testament, they are challenged to apply what they learn to their own lives. “David had to wait years after Samuel anointed him king of Israel, before he actually began to rule as king,” Broeder teaches, “But what about you? Are you patient for God to reward you when He decides the time is right?”

Later, the kids work on memorizing I Peter 5:6, a verse about being humble and waiting on God's timing. Then they play a game, reviewing the Bible story by drawing pictures and letting their teammates guess what they're drawing. “Mountains!” one boy guesses when a row of triangles is drawn. “No, it's a crown!” another exclaims, “King Saul's crown that the messenger brought to David!” It's apparent they've been listening.

Why is it important to learn those old Bible stories? Pastor Clark says, “Because the Bible is God's unchanging truth for every situation and time. We want the kids to evaluate life decisions in light of what God teaches—everything from 'What should I do with my life?' to marriage to end-of-life decisions.”

That's a lot to get across to children when you only have an hour or two every week. But Pastor Clark recognizes parents play an important role, too. “We want to reinforce the moral and spiritual values that the children are learning at home. We appreciate the opportunity parents allow us to teach and work with their children.”