Holy Spirit, Editor in Chief

In our last Sunday evening service, Pastor led a study on prayer and pointed us to Romans 8:26-27:

In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words; and He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. 

I was captivated by the idea that the Holy Spirit—God himself—intercedes for me when I don't know how to pray—or when I do pray but not according to the will of God.  It's like having the world's best editor who will kindly take my rough draft (at all hours of the day or night) and expertly rework it into a thing of beauty and truth.

_ _ _

Holy Spirit, Editor in Chief:
I yield my prayers to you.
Keep what can be salvaged—
More each time, I hope—
And change the rest.

When I demand instead of ask,

When I ask more than praise,

When I praise with trite speech,

Correct my prayers.

When I bring up the old guilts,

Long since forgiven,

Strike them through

With the blood-red flow of Calvary.

When I get the pronouns all wrong,

Replace the I's and Me's with You's.

Revise, refine, rework, reshape.

And in those moments
When doubt and searing pain
Have robbed me of all words,
Holy Spirit, be my Ghost Writer.

2014

What a year.

My personal theme for 2014 was "Learn to labor and to wait" (a line from Longfellow).
I grew in both diligence and patience (Heb. 6:11-12).  Mostly just learned how much I need to learn.

New friendships; also some painful goodbyes.
Buried more friends than in any previous year.  Heaven seems sweeter now.

Recovered from my first surgery, not sure how I would pay for it...
And then got a happy, happy surprise that the majority of my bills would be covered.

Strategic planning at Key Radio... meetings, goals, lots of prayer, some failure, more prayer.

Heard Fernando Ortega and Ravi Zacharias in the Mormon Tabernacle, of all places.  (pictured)
Light shining in darkness.  Still pinching myself.

A part-time job that paid ridiculously high wages for two months.  More pinching.
Another job fell into my lap in the fall, just when I needed it most.

National Religious Broadcasters convention at the Opryland in Nashville...  (pictured)
Ate breakfast with Erwin Lutzer, sang hymns with Joni Eareckson Tada.  Pinch, pinch.

Two witnessing opportunities stand out: one in front of the MTC, the other over BBQ.
Still praying for both people.

The 25th anniversary of Provo Bible Church.  Soli deo gloria.

The world's largest scavenger hunt, right here in Provo.  Is it legal to have that much fun?

Held a workshop for children's ministries workers: a longtime goal.
Spent a day going door-to-door in a polygamist community.  Strange and heartbreaking.
Roughed it at Bible camp for a few days.  Shared my home with an intern for a month.

A supporting church sent a group to spend a July week with me.  Ain't nobody like Kansans.  (pictured)

A few refreshing days with my folks in the rugged majesty of Capitol Reef Nat'l Park.
Another few days at the missions conference of Appalachian Bible College: more refreshment.

Got an accountability partner and a new morning routine including memorization time.
Memorized Colossians 3 and Psalm 25.  All the paths of the Lord are lovingkindness and truth...

Three of the most spectacular Utah hikes I've ever done:

Mt. Timpanogos via Timpooneke  (pictured)

Y Mountain (the true, less-traversed summit)

Grand Wash Trail, Capitol Reef

Good reads included:

Breath for the Bones: A Reflection on Creativity and Faith by Luci Shaw

Seeking Allah, Finding Jesus by Nabeel Qureshi

The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom (for the 3rd time)

...And in all of this, the Father's goodness and grace and faithfulness proven each day.

An excerpt from my journal entry, March 2, 2014:

In the Bleak Midwinter

For as long as I can remember, I have lived in places between 37º and 44º N latitude.  That means that Christmas has always been accompanied by cold temperatures, and usually snow.  I savor the change of seasons and I especially like having white Christmases.

It's no secret that Jesus probably was not born in December, and there almost certainly wasn't any snow falling that night in Bethlehem.  But there's something so apropos about celebrating Christmas "in the bleak midwinter" because it reflects mankind's condition.  It is not the weather that was bleak when Christ was born, but our hearts.  Cold, hopeless, lonely, miserable.  Into this bleakness Life and Light came!

But Christina Rossetti said it far better than I.  Her poem came to mind as I took a chilly Christmas Eve jog with this in view:

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago. 

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ. 

Enough for Him, whom cherubim
Worship night and day,
A breastful of milk,
And a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels
Fall down before,
The ox and ass and camel
Which adore. 

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air -
But only His mother
In her maiden bliss
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss. 

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can, I give Him -
Give my heart.

Shocker (an Advent Rumination)

"It's official," a friend posted online yesterday, "Dick Cheney is evil."

He linked to an article titled, "Dick Cheney Defends the Torture of Innocents" about interrogation techniques used by the CIA.  I didn't read the article.  I just sighed at the shocking-but-not-so-shocking mention of more accusations and inhumanity.  And then I closed my laptop and climbed the stairs for bed.

For some reason I awoke at 4:34 AM, and those six words sprang to mind again: It's official.  Dick Cheney is evil.

Only this time, it was not a sigh that followed but the memory of a jarring indictment from Jeremiah 17:9, "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."  Then John 3:19, "Men loved darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil."  And Psalm 53, "Together they have become corrupt; there is no one who does good, not even one."

All of a sudden I was wide awake and forced to admit it: I am Dick Cheney.  My friend could have just as well broadcast to the world, "It's official.  Karisa Clark is evil."  And it would have been true.  Utterly, undeniably true.

The shocker in all of this is not that man is evil.  A thirty-second dose of any evening news show is proof enough.  Wars, greed, degrading speech, the careless snuffing out of human life.

The shocker is not even that I am (and you are) evil.  Probe the corners of your heart with even a small measure of honesty and you'll be forced to admit with me that the dark stuff of sin is, on an individual level, very, very real.

No, the shocker is not the darkness around us or the darkness inside us.  The real shocker is the Light.

It is this: "The Light shines in the darkness" (John 1:5).

And it is this: "While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us" (Rom. 5:8).

And it is gloriously this: "God sent forth his Son... so that he might redeem" (Gal. 4:4-5).

This Redeemer did not leave us without hope, caught in the reverseless spiral down into our own wretchedness.  He did not wait for us to come to him, for we could not.  He came to us.

He who is holy, he who is wholly Other, emptied himself of his glory and took the form of a servant.  He dwelled with us, he died for us, and he raised us with himself.  This is what should stagger us.

If you do not shake your head in utter disbelief at least once every Christmas, I'm afraid you are missing the whole point.

I wonder as I wander out under the sky,
How Jesus the Savior did come for to die
For poor, ornery people like you and like I?

This Christmas, I wish peace for the world; I wish goodwill and compassion to replace accusations and inhumanity.  But for you, my friend, I wish you most of all: complete astonishment at Jesus, Emmanuel.

Veterans Day

One year ago tomorrow, my favorite veteran lost his final battle with cancer.

My grandpa, Charles Clark, enlisted in the Army Air Force in 1941 and served four years, stationed in Guam and Alaska.  He was active in the American Legion for 69 years, always proud to be a WWII vet.  When I was a child, our Memorial Day tradition was watching Grandpa march in the Chatfield, Minnesota parade.

Like most of that greatest generation, Grandpa rarely spoke about his military service.  A modest man, he never sought recognition for that or any other successes.  Back in 1945, he was content to quietly return home, marry my grandma, settle into a career of managing grain elevators in North Dakota, and raise five children.

Last Veterans Day, two servicemen came to Grandpa's room at the hospice house in Rochester.  They presented him with a small gift and saluted him as he lay alert but unable to respond.  Looking at photographs from that ceremony is acutely moving to me tonight.  For all that is wretched and broken about 21st-century America, here is a moment that shines of our country's pride and virtue.  An honorable gesture for an honorable man.

The roses in the above picture are from the flower arrangement on Grandpa's casket, and the shell is from the honor guard's salute at the graveside ceremony.  It rests in plain sight in my living room, a daily reminder of sacrifice, honor—and a precious future reunion in our Savior's presence.

Everyone's Looking for Something

For years now, I have frequented a nearby trail for jogging or walking.  Something about the fresh air and the whispering cottonwoods and the comforting familiarity of the place sparks a certain je ne sais quoi for me.  It seems there are always interesting people and happenings on the trail—or maybe my mind is just sharper to observe detail and think creatively there.  Either way, little things like the following result.

_ _ _

"Have you seen some slippers?"
I was startled out of reverie
as I walked along the river
by this young mother's question.
She was astride a green bicycle;
behind her, a child with sorrowful eyes,
whose Mickey Mouse slippers had fallen off
somewhere along the path.

The next evening another stranger
blurted out a different inquiry:
"Have you seen any ducks?"
His toddler son was on his shoulders,
clutching a bag of bread crumbs.

Everyone's looking for something.

I myself am tempted to ask the next passerby:

"Excuse me, sir, but did you notice

a pile of patience beside the path back there?

I seem to have lost it along the way."

I imagine a little cove on the river,

cleverly hidden from our sight,

where mallard ducks take turns

trying on small Mickey Mouse slippers

and admiring their reflection in the water.

And when one of them takes too long,

the next in line does not quack

his annoyance or stamp his webbed foot,

but calmly helps himself

to another portion of my patience.

The Sketch Book

A year ago, I started keeping a sketch book with my Bible and journal.  There's also a pouch full of assorted pens and markers close by.  (The pouch has "Ford" inscribed on the front; it used to hold a car owner's manual and is the only remnant I have of my beloved Bubbles.)

Here's my one rule for the sketch book: Bible verses or passages only.  No doodles, no poetry, no Origami.  (A blank page of paper holds so much possibility!)

I have found my quiet times to be so enriched by the creative, kinesthetic practice of writing out bits of Scripture.  It makes each word soak into my mind in a way that simply reading doesn't do.  Even more importantly, it's an act of worship.  A verse may strike me with such poignancy that I can't help but copy it down and add some color and flourish, as if to say, Look, Father!  Look at this beautiful thing You have said!  What a magnificent Book You have written.

Have your daily quiet times gone a little stale?  Try adding an element of creativity.  You will be blessed; even better, the Lord will be blessed.

See the Conqueror

Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for yesterday we were dead.

- Russell Moore

- - -

I woke up with this hymn running through my head.  Here's wishing you a joyous Resurrection Day, full of praise to the Death-Conqueror.

An Open Letter to Ellie Holcomb

Dear Ellie,

I have a few bones to pick with you.

1.  You make my mascara run.
To start off your CD release concert on Sunday, you stepped to the mic and recited parts of Hosea 6 and Lamentations 3.  It wrecked me.  In the future, please take a cue from any number of other Christian artists and stick to trite comments and humorous anecdotes when you're up in front of people.  Quoting beautiful passages of holy Scripture is an unfair advantage over those of us who prefer to keep our Avon intact.

2.  You are an enemy of the forests.

Conservation, Ellie.  Conservation.  You have caused me to blubber into more tissues than your fair share.  Maybe if you sang with less sweetness, if you spoke with less conviction and wrote songs with less vulnerability and joy—maybe then I could have kept the shrinkwrap on this three-pack of Kleenex and preserved an innocent pine.

3.  You made me miss my exit.

In October I took a week's retreat to Colorado.  Your EP, With You Now, found its way into my car's CD player and remained there the whole eight days.  It was a time of release and renewal for me, and your music was the soundtrack.  I would have been grateful, except that you caused me to lapse into such introspection and prayer that I missed my exit on I-70 three different times.  The same exit, Ellie: missed three times in a row by a woman who prides herself on level-headedness.  Neil Diamond has never made me miss an exit.  Neither has Alison Krauss or even Johnny Cash himself.  Your manager should have received my bill for 92 cents of gasoline.

4.  You do not live in Utah.

Sure, you do a number on my eye makeup; you make me expend fistfuls of tissues and drive like a clueless person. Still, I would be willing to set all this aside and strike up a friendship if only you lived 1,635 miles closer to me.  The truth is, with my (ahem) unrivaled humility and your delightful music, hilarious stories, authenticity, and love of Jesus—we could be very good friends indeed.  Is it really too much to ask that you leave the hub of American music and come to the Christian musician's flyover state?  In a burst of generosity, I hereby waive the 92-cent tab if you give just one concert here.

It is for these reasons, Ellie, that I am imploring all three of my blog readers and all seven of my Key Radio listeners to not watch your concert online for free, or download some of your captivating music for a tip of their choice, or purchase your new album which I Kickstarted in a moment of temporary insanity.

Yours with tongue in cheek,

Karisa

Farewell, Bubbles

There's nothing like a near-death experience to get one blogging again.  So here I am.

And here is the interior of my car, Bubbles, at 1:06 a.m. on August 30, near Ellis, Kansas:

After traveling all day, I was just 65 miles from my destination when a deer stepped in front of me.  She  lived to regret it for approximately two seconds as she flipped onto Bubbles' windshield and came to rest in assorted pieces behind me.

You know how those television commercials touting a car's safety rating show air bags inflating in slow motion, like big, soft marshmallows?  Inaccurate.  Air bags are shockingly loud and incredibly fast.  They are also very smelly after the fact.

And here's something commercials never address: the difficulty of driving your car with a limp, bulky air bag hanging out of your steering wheel.  How would I know?  Because I drove Bubbles that final 65 miles, at the encouragement of the surprisingly-cheerful-for-that-hour-of-the-night sheriff's deputy who came to my assistance.  "It's just cosmetic damage," he concluded as he circled the car with his flashlight.  "Just take 'er slow.  I'll follow you to your exit."  And he was right: Bubbles started up and ran fine.  Takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'.  Hits a doe 'n' keeps on goin'.

Never mind the fact that I couldn't see through half the windshield, and that a headlight was left lying in the ditch.  We made it to my folks' house near 3:00 a.m., Bubbles and I.  Our last trip together.  My insurance determined it was a total loss "two or three times over."  I guess smelly air bags are pricey to replace.

Thus ends a seven-year friendship with the first car I have ever owned.  Last I knew, she was sitting at the Insurance Auto Auction on 53rd Ave. in Wichita.  I like to think that her various parts are being tenderly salvaged and inserted into other worthy vehicles, giving them the heart and soul of a car that was well-loved.

Is it absurd to grieve an automobile?  I make no apology.  Farewell, beloved Bubbles.

And—hello, Wendell the White!

My folks.  What can I say about them?  Generous is certainly a good start.  Their daughter wrecked her car and stranded herself 900 miles away from her home in Utah.  What to do?  Not a moment's hesitation—they promptly pulled out their well-worn SuperDad and SuperMom suits and came to her rescue.  It wasn't enough that they let her take their best car back to Utah and pay for it as she is able—they also gave it an oil change and scrubbed every last bug speck from its bumper before handing over the keys with a smile.

And so I write this with a gently-used 2006 Taurus in my carport.  And merely a sore wrist from the air bag.  It's cliché but true: it could have been so much worse.  If the plastic binding had not held the shattered windshield together... or if there had been a vehicle directly behind me when I hit the brakes and swerved—this would be a very different story, friends.

Though I [drive my car] in the midst of trouble, You preserve my life.  Psalm 138:7 NIV

Pioneer Day

It was on July 24, 1847, that Brigham Young led the first group of Mormon pioneers into the Salt Lake Valley.  Pioneer Day is an official holiday in Utah: parades, fireworks—and, in Provo, the first-ever Temple to Temple 5k.  Over 5,000 people are running from the Provo LDS Temple to the City Center LDS Temple, which is under construction in downtown Provo.  According to the website, the purpose of the race is two-fold—to remind participants of the Mormons' journey west from Illinois, and to honor one's ancestors:

Temples are special places where families can be sealed for time and eternity. They allow us to perform ordinances in behalf of our ancestors, if they choose to accept them. We invite you to use this chance to remember a specific ancestor who is important in your life that you plan to run for. Tags will be available for you to put their names and stick them to your bib.

Registration for the Temple to Temple 5k was closed early due to the overwhelming response, but maybe I'll get in next year.  I would be glad for the chance to remember my ancestors.  Their eternal destiny, however, was determined the moment they died.  There is no proxy ceremony that can add to the perfect blood of Jesus, itself enough to purchase their pardon from a holy God and a home in heaven.  The only question is: did they place their trust in Jesus?  (And, have you?  Learn more here.)

But while I'm on the subject of Utah culture, here's an invitation that was taped to my door one day:

Also, don't miss this amusing list of my state's idiosyncrasies.  It's good reading on Pie and Beer Day—I mean Pioneer Day.

Farming and Ministry

This intimate song from Peter Rowan evokes all kinds of memories and feelings for me.

Among them, this biblical thought (see I Corinthians 3)...
How much in common has the gospel ministry with farming!

You bust the sod,

You trust in God,

And you work night and day.

Barefoot Country Road

"Barefoot Country Road"

from Dust Bowl Children, Peter Rowan

The Essence of All We Create

With sunshine soaking into my winter-weary bones and robins bustling about nearby, I lounged on my patio a few weeks ago and committed a bit of poetry to memory.

Yes, I realize this sort of thing is normally done by people three times my age.  In my defense, I was not sipping Ensure, nor was a crocheted lap rug anywhere in sight.

And after all, what better time than spring for Greenleaf?  John Greenleaf Whittier, that is.  An excerpt of his "The Eternal Goodness":

I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
God’s mercy underlies. 

And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruiséd reed He will not break,
But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my own I have,
Nor works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love. 

And so beside the silent sea
I wait the muffled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me
On ocean or on shore. 

I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.

Mmmm.  Beautiful.  And this is where I slip into poetry geek mode.

That crisp iambic tetrameter (if I'm not mistaken) is a welcome sound in an age of free verse.  And I am crazy about that alliterated line, "And so beside the silent sea".  The maritime references are delightfully reminiscent of Tennyson's "Crossing the Bar."

But more striking to me are the allusions to Scripture.  Whittier was a Quaker and it's obvious he knew his Bible.  Psalm 73:26 must be the source for the phrase, "if my heart and flesh are weak".  The "bruised reed" alludes to Isaiah 42:3, while stanza three refers, I think, to Titus 3:5 and related passages.  II Timothy 1:12 also comes to mind with the whole tone of the poem.  Do you see any others I'm missing?

A lesson from Whittier, if I may.  Poets, storytellers, songwriters, wordsmiths, artists all—let us submerse ourselves in Holy Scripture.  Then may it ooze from our pens.  May it anchor every expression of thought.  May it be the very essence of all we create.

One Perfect Book

I've been looking for a book like this for a good six years.

John MacArthur's One Perfect Life blends accounts from all four Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John) into one seamless narrative.  Occasional related verses from the Old Testament and epistles are inserted for beautiful commentary.

"The complete story of Jesus" is broken up into short chapters—perfect for devotional reading.  I have never spent much time in the New King James Version, and I'm enjoying the fresh, readable translation.  Bonus: notes from the MacArthur Study Bible are included for extra insight on things like cultural context and cross-references.

Five stars for this book that will stay in my library for a lifetime.

On Turning Twenty-Five

A quarter-century ago, I was climbing Minnesota trees, reading Dick and Jane books, and determinedly mastering the skill of riding my banana-seated purple bike without training wheels.

My family did not own a television in those days, but the radio was often playing.  Children's Bible Hour, Ranger Bill, Jungle Jam, and later Adventures in Odyssey—these provided the wholesome, imaginative soundtrack of my childhood.

As I was wobbling down the sidewalk, free of training wheels at last, something special was happening in Provo, Utah.  A group of Christians was taking the reins of a debt-ridden AM radio station, intent on establishing it as a beacon of truth in a valley where less than 1% of the population shared their faith in Jesus.

KEYY, 1450 AM in Provo, had been a popular rock-n-roll station for a couple decades until it faced financial ruin in the mid-1980s.  Then in 1987 it came into the possession of a man who reinvented it as a station which aired primarily Bible teaching.  The following year, Biblical Ministries Worldwide acquired the station with the purpose of using it to share God's grace and assist church-planting missionaries in the area.

I had, of course, no idea what was going on in 1988 in Provo, Utah.  (Where was Utah, anyway?  Who cares; did you see me ride my bike?!)  But now I can see how the Lord was preparing me for joining the team in Utah, investing in radio ministry which had been so special to me even as a kid.  I love what I do.  I am convinced of its value to the kingdom.  There is nowhere I'd rather be than Provo and KEY Radio.  Well—except for heaven.

Today marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of BMW's operating KEY Radio.  Larger organizations would have banquets and speeches and commemorative Rolex watches distributed to their well-paid employees.  For us, the anniversary arrives with little fanfare.  Unpaid bills sit at the bookkeeping computer; Rolexes are out of the question.

There are a few things we're doing to commemorate the milestone.  For one: airing the intriguing first-hand story of a young man who left his polygamist religion for a relationship with Jesus, largely as a result of listening to KEY Radio.  Listen here and rejoice with us: God is using radio to reach lost souls.  He is good.  His kingdom advances—even in Provo, Utah.

Happy 25th, KEY Radio!  To God be the glory.

On Turning Thirty

"Ah! Women are like cheese strudels. When first baked, they are crisp and fresh on the outside, but the filling is unsettled and indigestible; in age, the crust may not be so lovely, but the filling comes at last into its own."

- Robert Farrar Capon, The Supper of the Lamb

In masks outrageous and austere,

The years go by in single file.

But none has merited my fear,

And none has quite escaped my smile.

- Elinore Wylie, "Now Let No Charitable Hope"

 

The Grace Awakening

 

I am stoked about this series now airing on KEY Radio.  Dr. Chuck Swindoll is a marvelous communicator, and this subject matter is life-changing.  I wish every person I know would awaken to God's grace

—LDS and Christians alike.  Including myself.

If you can't listen to KEY Radio in Utah, you can listen online anywhere.  Times listed are MST.  Or, listen on-demand and find out more here.

Here's a teaser to get you thinking: what is grace?  And how do we live it?

My Fair and Peculiar City

Provo City recently created this nice 3-minute look at our town.  The city has been going through a re-branding process—new logo, motto, signage, etc.—and this is one result.  There's a little commentary by our esteemed mayor, with whom I have chatted about contact lenses and airline preferences, and have found to be a most pleasant fellow.  It also features some spiffy time-lapse video and shots of favorite local businesses and landmarks.  I dig it, yo.

After watching the video a second time, it hit me: there is something curiously absent from the video.  Remember, this is a city that is about 90% Latter-day Saint (Mormon).  Yet there is no evidence of the religious culture—no shots of the Provo Temple... or Brigham Young University... or the LDS Missionary Training Center... or the ubiquitous LDS chapels.  And the people that show up in the video seem surprisingly non-LDS-ish (I'm going mainly by clothing here).  Indeed, this could be Any Nice City, USA.  The only reference to the LDS Church that I noticed is a passing view of Brigham Young's statue at 2:42.

What's my point?  Like a stubby pencil, I don't have one.  I'm just curious.  Like George.  Was the omission intentional?  Even strategic?  Or am I, an outsider, overly sensitive to the peculiarities of this religion-dominated city?  Maybe I am the only one to think the absence strange.*  Any thoughts?

* This wouldn't be the first time I fixate on minutiae nobody else notices.  I pore over the liner notes of CDs and records with a zeal most would reserve for a lost gem.  And if there is one renegade comma in a 500-page book, I will find it.  There are probably support groups for people like me.  Come to think of it, maybe that's why I never get asked on a date.  "Karisa?  Oh, she's the one who will point it out if my shoes are laced asymmetrically.  No thanks.  Cute girl, though."  I know, that last statement is unlikely.  But when I make up other people's remarks, I can jolly well insert a compliment.

The Case of the Upside Down Glass

It's been precisely two years since the single most bizarre discovery of my life.

Late that evening, this is what greeted me when I walked into my kitchen:

When I left that morning, this glass and cookie sheet, along with a bunch of other dishes, had been sitting in the dish drainer on my counter.

Two questions.  How did these things get out of the drainer without disturbing the other dishes?  And how did they happen to perch themselves on the floor in just such an arrangement?

See what I mean?  Bizarre.  If I had found Lyle Lovett doing Yoga in my kitchen, I could not have been more surprised or confounded.

The first thing I did, upon making this discovery?  Laugh: good and hard.  It was just so absurd.

Then it occurred to me that the only logical explanation was that someone had placed these dishes there.  Someone had been in my home.  Someone very much uninvited.

Was the Someone still here?  There was only one way to find out.  With a bread knife in one hand and pepper spray in the other, I cautiously peered into every closet, under beds, anywhere a human body could fit.  All the while, I kept making ridiculous loud announcements like, "I know you're here.  Just give yourself up now, and I won't slash your eyes out."  When in doubt: feign confidence.

Nothing turned up.  I slept that night with a chair wedged under my bedroom doorknob and the knife within reach.  Plenty of other people were far more concerned when they found out.  If you're into Facebook, you can see the original comments here.

In two years, I have yet to think of or hear a decent explanation.  I had my house key with me that whole day.  My landlord had the other copy.  He lives next door and had not noticed anything strange.  My windows were all secured.

I settled on the following story: there were two slight earthquakes (Provo is near a fault line, you know); the precariously balanced cookie sheet fell onto the floor during the first; the glass followed during the second, landing at the exact angle necessary to keep it from shattering or falling over.  Ha.

So it's a mystery.  People often say how they are going to ask the Lord questions when they reach heaven—why He allowed them to get sick or lose a loved one.  I simply want to know: how did the cookie sheet and upside down glass end up on my kitchen floor?  And why couldn't it have been Lyle Lovett instead?

Meanwhile, I rest in the care of a loving, sovereign God.  Cause for fear?  I can't think of any.

Faith is so much better than feigned confidence.

Auld Lang Syne

Whatever "auld lang syne" means... it's a pretty melody.  Don't worry, I don't sing in this clip.  I just show some proof of the guitar lessons I've been taking.

P.S.  No, I do not play left-handed.  Apparently Photo Booth records the mirror image; anyone know how to change that?