What Heroes Wear (or, The Death of Cynicism)

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

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

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

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

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

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.)

PXGK6X6Z9BFE

Post-Health Care Reform Resolutions

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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.

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

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.......

Can you beat my modest score of 51?

It doesn't hurt to dream

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

Some days are just peachy...

...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

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!

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

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

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

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

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"!

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

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

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.

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...

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

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?

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

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

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

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"

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!

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?

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

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