Welcome, Holy Child

On a recent Sunday afternoon, from my vantage on Sue's sofa in her joyously festooned den, I reveled in the comforting rise and fall of familiar women's voices. I admired golfing Santas frozen in mid-swing on her mantel. I squinted as I nursed my punch, recalling how I shed my glasses as a nearsighted girl to enhance the holiday haze of our tree as the console stereo in our rarely-used living room played "Many Moods of Christmas," some 40 years ago.

Sue's living room does not fall into the "rarely used" category. Today, it was filled with grandmothers, mothers and daughters, some balancing babies in their laps, assembled ritually in Sunday clothes to give Mandy a proper sendoff on the grand adventure of motherhood. The centerpiece was graced with poinsettias, snowmen and baby shoes. Guests arrived with all manner of lovingly-wrapped offerings to celebrate the new child and adorn his surroundings. Christmas and babies: my favorite things in one afternoon. Lovely. What a welcome for this boy!

I considered the things Mandy will soon know. I was happy for her to join the throng of women since Eve who understand what it is like to joyfully participate in the act of creation and to love someone so completely -- then to carry inside the bittersweet understanding that she cannot protect her child perfectly. I thought how this child will teach Mandy selflessness, joy, longsuffering, humility, sacrifice, and love. I considered how her world will revolve around him, and I acknowledged, just for a moment, that he will have the power to break her heart in ways she could never foresee.

Driving home, I pushed a CD player button and listened to a selection from my current holiday collection. No "Many Moods of Christmas" this time, but the random choice suited my mood and the day. It was Amy Grant, singing a welcome for another boy:

Welcome to Our World   by Chris Rice

Tears are falling, hearts are breaking

How we need to hear from God.

You've been promised; we've been waiting --

Welcome, holy child.

Hope that you don't mind our manger;

How I wish we would have known!

But, long-awaited holy stranger,

Make yourself at home.

Bring your peace into our violence;

Bid our hungry souls be filled.

Word, now breaking Heaven's silence

Welcome to our world.

Fragile fingers sent to heal us,

Tender brow prepared for thorns,

Tiny heart whose blood will save us

Unto us is born.

So, wrap our injured flesh around you;

Breathe our air, and walk our sod.

Rob our sin, and make us holy

Perfect son of God.

Welcome to our world.

My husband Dan is fond of saying that parents will always love their children more than children can possibly love them back, because a child can't comprehend the secret ingredient in love -- sacrifice: the all-encompassing anticipation, the planning, the prayers said before there is a hint of swelling in Mom's belly, the anxiety, the constant preoccupation with ordering the world to best accommodate the comfort, safety, and best interests of the child. Undoubtedly, God refers to Himself as our Father rather than merely our Creator because it’s the closest way for our earthbound brains to wrap around His sacrifice and grief. He loved us even before creation, and He watched, brokenhearted, as we chose paths that took us away from Him.

As Creator, Jesus loved each of us completely. As Father, His heart was broken to watch us lose ourselves in Satan's lies. As Redeemer, He was willing to be human and hurting -- the eternal squeezed into the finite, God with a dirty diaper or an empty tummy, the omnipotent one submissive even with the cross before Him -- to draw us near to Him again.

So tonight, with my own family asleep and our holiday lights silently glowing, I rejoice with Mandy at the coming of her precious son Jacob, and I quietly celebrate that other child whose birth the world remembers during this season: the One who taught us selflessness, joy, longsuffering, humility, sacrifice, and love. I recall how my sin breaks His heart, and I resolve to keep the lessons of His life and sacrifice ever present with me. Welcome, Holy Child.

By way of disclosure, this essay was originally published in Christian Woman magazine several years back, the year the intrepid Jake Tatom was born.  

A Tale of Two Emmas, and of Hurricane Sandy

The hardest things in life reveal who we are and what is really important.  No great revelation there.  In Sandy's aftermath, we are besieged with heart rending stories of people doing what some people do under stress -- trading our daily pettiness for some truly meaningful selflessness.  No doubt some of these people look at themselves every day with some level of disgust, thinking they should be better, or more noble, or more patient, as we all do. Caught in a sticky web of circumstance, however, some people find a reservoir of strength unapparent in their daily lives.  Sometimes a reporter happens by and catches it and millions of people get to participate in that moment.

One such story is this week's tale of the evacuation of NYU Langone Medical Center.  The hospital basement generators failed during the storm, and administrators made the difficult decision to evacuate the entire hospital population, including those most vulnerable -- premature babies, swaddled and wearing little striped caps, with all the trappings of the NICU--ventilators and monitors and feeding tubes. The image of one fragile preemie, Emma Sophia, being carried down 15 fights of stairs in the arms of a nurse who ventilated her with a bag as she descended, caught in my throat.

Seventeen years ago that very night at another hospital far away, our family had a storm of our own.  We delivered our own preemie -- another Emma, in fact, who came into the world unexpectedly two and a half months early with a crowd of anxious people standing in the wings cheering her on. At 2 pounds, 13 ounces, she surely needed some cheering. And praying. And some complicated medical support and expertise, offered by kind and intent professionals wearing scrubs who ministered both to her and to us.

Premature birth is traumatic, and it has a long recovery period both for the infant and the parents.  We have expectations of how things will be, and when they turn out much differently, it changes us.  Emma Sophia's mother was already emotionally impaired by the premature birth; to hear that her tiny child was being moved during the storm of the century without her there to oversee the process -- well, I could not imagine her despair.  My mother's heart broke as she related her story on CNN.

Natural disasters reveal what a thin veneer civilization really is. The material trappings of safety and security are so easily damaged and torn, and the choices and actions of a single person become proportionately more significant. So what is the takeaway from my retelling of the story of Sandy and the two Emmas? Not much wisdom here, except to say that perhaps it's good for humankind to be reminded not to build our lives around expectations of comfort and convenience.

Garrison Keillor tells a story about how students at Lake Wobegon Elementary were assigned a "storm home," in the event a blizzard occurred and students were unable to get back to their parents.  A safe harbor, as it were. He related how as a child he had taken great comfort in imagining his "storm family" and how kind they would be to him. It's good to be reminded that on any given day, our actions could mean everything to someone else, when our stuff can be wiped out by fire and rain.

Heroism as a word is virtually meaningless from overuse in modern society. Give me kindness over heroism any day. I recall so very clearly moments in which our own emotional tempest of our Emma's premature birth was placed in stark contrast to the kindness of those who just wanted to make something easier for us. I will never forget those people.  Let's remember that when it comes down to it, looking not just to our own interests -- but to the interests of others -- transforms the broken world we live in at its most broken moments.

Every Day is a New Revelation

I'm thinking about change.  A year ago, I was learning and teaching history at Conway Christian School, watching my daughter Emma prepare for those last two years of high school that would see her off to college, leaving Dan and me home alone in our big empty house.  Our lives were set, for the most part.

Then, in the spring, Dan had an opportunity to move an hour away to Searcy,  to become a full-time faculty member in the College of Business at Harding.  To reenvision your life is brave; it acknowledges that you understand that we are all unfinished. Teaching is certainly not something one masters overnight, and teachers are forever refining their methods. But I know he will be good at it. Sometimes the process of newness is uncomfortable, but that's how it is for each of us when we are becoming something altogether different.  These days, every day is a new revelation for him, and for us all.

We pulled 16-year-old Emma's roots up and transplanted her to Harding Academy, a place where she will be well-served, but every day is a brand new to her as well. She is adjusting to the changes from being an Eagle to a Wildcat,  and we pray that God teaches her the lessons that will serve her best, and will glorify Him, through the transformation of her life, and of all of our lives.

As for me, I left my classroom and my familiar set of high school students behind for a few revelations myself.  In these Harding classrooms, I'm not the teacher; I'm the full-time graduate student, schlepping my computer bag around campus vaguely shocked when students defer to me and call me "ma'am" in line at the printer in the library, for I am one of them -- at least on the inside.  On the outside, I am somewhat shopworn with highlighted hair -- a sign of a woman uncertain as to exactly how much gray she actually has, and vaguely afraid to confront the reality.

This is a good place to be, although in a way exhausting every day with its newness.  Some people are more resilient by nature than others.  I think I am the most naturally "bendy" of anyone in my family, and still, the transition is a little wearing.  Every task I have to do for the first time, no matter how mundane,  requires a decision to be made:  the eye doctor, the oil change, the dry cleaner, the best place to get coffee.

Which brings me to Midnight Oil.  This morning I'm sitting in the corner of a coffee shop on the edge of campus, where I was greeted by a young, open-faced blonde barista beaming with welcome as she took my order.  She sized me up, intuitively understanding I might not know how they did business here, and carefully not making me feel foolish for not understanding that I had to sign my credit card slip with my fingertip on the iPad register setup. I like it here.  The beveled glass in the windows rattles as the doors open and close. The floors creak as customers pass with their mochas and their laptops; the millwork is beaten and worn. Avett Brothers tunes flow from the speakers and the windows are open to the first cool promise of fall as the sun streams in.  A gentleman across the room spontaneously falls in next to a young female nursing student and asks whether she has any questions to prepare for her test.  She asks something about edema, slightly mispronouncing it, and he kindly explains it to her.  She seems very grateful for the consult.

The walls are covered with the photography of Philip Holsinger, whom I do not know, but I think I might like to.  They are exhibition-sized, glossy, mostly black and white, high-contrast photos of everyday life in Haiti.  The one called "Madonna and Child" haunts me.  In it, a Haitian woman sits on an expanse of dark, desolate, unappealing ground with the ocean in the distance, a child in her lap. The child's face is hidden, turned toward his mother. Her arms encircle him; her body twists upward and to the right, and her graceful neck extends like a Degas sculpture.  Her face reflects a kind of resignation. She stares into the distance at -- her past? His future? I make a note to attend Holsinger's gallery exhibition to see more this afternoon.

Some days I look around and cannot believe that we live here now. After 25 years of Dan's commuting to Little Rock from Conway and being out of contact during much of the day while I was in a classroom, Dan and I now discuss his new life of teaching and we eat lunch together frequently.  We often have a house full of college students -- fourteen for lunch on Sunday. We anticipated such, and bought a house with a room for them to hang out, as much out of self-defense as hospitality.  The students seem not to care that I am not exactly Martha Stewart; they're just thankful to have a place to go.  It is low-pressure entertaining and we enjoy having them in our home.

These young people are full of infectious energy. Some are self-consciously clueless; some feel they have it all under control; some are awkward; most are reveling in these days when they are surrounded by friendship and the promise of travel abroad and the world opening up to them and them to it in turn. They are smart and funny and fresh. Each has a story; some have been coddled by helicopter parents and some have been on their own to a great extent.  But they are beginning to become what they will be, apart from Mom and Dad.

I guess we all have this in common: we don't know what we don't know.  I pray that the teachers and staff who minister to my daughter -- and it is ministry -- while she studies here will be gracious to her. I pray they will hold her to a high standard of performance, that they will call her out of the unexamined life, and will remind her that she serves a loving God who requires that she be pliable as he transforms her.

I pray that they will make her profoundly uncomfortable with the status quo from time to time, and will sensitize her to the relative luxury of her safe life.  I pray that part of her reinvention will include a mental screenshot of Holsinger's "Madonna and Child," who might someday benefit from her gifts and the gifts of other students here as they disperse into the world.  And I pray that each student who walks these sidewalks will learn more daily about the God who doesn't always tell us in advance where He's taking us, but who always walks beside us and transforms us on the journey.  Because if we are open to it, every day is a new revelation, no matter where it takes us.

To learn more about the mission of Midnight Oil, aside from being a purveyor of excellent caffeinated beverages, you may go here:  http://www.midnightoilcoffeehouse.com

The Camp Tahkodah Oasis

Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord... He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit.                                                                                 Jeremiah 17:7-8

Tonight I'm cleaning the dust of -- not Canaan's Land (see March 21 post "The American Taliban Prequel") -- but Camp Tahkodah -- off my feet.  This afternoon Dan and I made the mid-session  pilgrimage from our new home in Searcy north to visit the banks of Salado Creek near Floral, Arkansas.  Since our oldest daughter was in third grade, we have brought one or both of our girls to Floral each summer to spend a week or two at their happy place, owned by Harding University.


We've come a long way from that inaugural year, when I took a month to pack Claire and paid too much for cute custom camp labels from a "Going to Camp?" website, which preyed on the separation anxiety of mothers.  Now they pack themselves in about an hour, and I just throw a Sharpie in their bedroom door and remind them they have a better chance of returning with possessions people can identify;  we have to decide each year whether we actually want all those items back anyway.  Camp Tahkodah dirt is a tenacious combination of sand and construction adhesive.  Whether it is embedded in the sole of a pair of Chacos or in the seat of basketball shorts, attempting to remove it gives pause.  We do a cost-benefit analysis, and sometimes the camp dirt wins and we pitch the item, a sacrifice to the Spirit of Tahkodah.


This year, the oldest has graduated to assistant counselor, which is a fancy title for someone who is allowed to wash lots of dishes and do other menial chores for the privilege of spending a little more time there.  She is also a lifeguard, a credential she sought expressly because she wanted a little edge on getting hired.  Our youngest, age 16,  is now in the senior girls cabin, and the idea that she might not return next summer is exquisitely disconcerting when she allows herself to think about it -- so she doesn't.


When we packed up our things to move to Searcy recently, we realized the girls had accumulated a handful of Bibles engraved with "Camp Tahkodah" and signed by former director Ross Cochran, souvenirs of the Bible Bee.  Although we are not especially athletic, our family tends to do well in competitive question-answering, and our children have won a handful of times over the years.  Occasionally we've lamented that we would have traded a ready recollection of the names of the twelve tribes of Israel for a decent jump shot, but it is what it is.  God gives us each our gifts and thank heaven there's a place in the Kingdom, and at camp,  for the less coordinated.


I realized today as I stood under the pines amid a circle of log cabins, with laundry neatly hung on a clothesline beside each, that there are people from Harding who have been ministering to my grimy children in this place for nine years now.  They prayed for them before they ever arrived, cooked for them, administered first aid to them, taught them, regaled them with ridiculous songs, hiked with them, rode horses with them, canoed with them, looked out for their safety, exhorted them to good hygiene and entreated them to more effective cabin cleanup, encouraged them in competitive activities, led praise and worship for them all, and called them toward stronger relationships and to a more authentic faith. When Claire arrived at college, a Tahkodah staffer welcomed her into her home for a weekly small group study, for which Dan and I have been most thankful.  Relationships forged here as the staff invests in the lives of campers from many states will have ripples into the future of each of these sweaty young humans.

We were pleased to note as we arrived at camp last weekend that Salado Creek was still running, although many ponds and creeks in Arkansas are dry.  I was especially thankful today that, in the midst of a miserable and devastating drought, Camp Tahkodah has seen some rain, cloud cover, and merciful relief from the heat, every day this session.  But I also know that regardless of the weather, at least for my girls, Tahkodah has always been an oasis.

Here's a link to a video about her Tahkodah experience posted online by a camper last year  It gives you some idea of her feelings about camp.  Copy and past to play:  http://vimeo.com/26932911

Finally: A Blog About Moving, and About Moving On

As many of you know, I moved last week, and I have not blogged about it yet. Although a great opportunity for our entire family, the move required considerable mental adjustment for me. I normally blog about current events or those far removed in time, and these events are still unfolding.

The move meant leaving our idyllic retreat on Round Mountain, where the change of seasons and the change of weather were a delight of God's creation played out like cinema through the rear windows of our ridgetop home. It meant leaving the house we had built so carefully, with outlets in bizarre locations for our convenience -- and my roomy kitchen island that was, as Dan put it, actually more like a subcontinent -- perfect for feeding hordes of kids. We built it with everything the color of nature; the "color of dirt" philosophy suited us;  it was a casual, comfortable house.


It meant leaving our safe room, into which we had retreated last year after the tornado struck neighboring Vilonia, along with friends who became our housemates when the storm damaged their home. We all watched another storm approach from the dinner table that night. As the sky darkened and the wind picked up, their fearful eyes darted again and again to that view, until finally the sirens sounded and we all headed for shelter.  I was thankful to be able to share our "safe place" with them that night.

The move meant leaving the upstairs bonus room that been the "storm home" not only for that family, but for two others at various times, who were refugees from the kind of disaster that rips not houses, but lives apart.  We had more house than we could use, and they were lovely friends and guests.  I still recall, being less than a great cook, the night we received one such guest.  I felt like the shepherd boy from the poem about the manger in Bethlehem. "What can I give Him, poor as I am?"  No home baked comfort food at my house.  We broke out a can of chocolate icing and some spoons, sat at the kitchen table, and commiserated on the sorry state of things.  It is a nice memory.  The day he left our home, he left a can of icing on the subcontinent.

The move meant leaving the world's longest back porch, where, once or twice a year, my husband would convene until the wee hours with a few kindred males, to ceremonially strike a blow for Freedom From Being Told What To Do by Women while they discussed topics men talk about when women are not present. I would lie in bed and listen to the deep droning of their conversation, not really wanting to know its substance, but rather glad that my back porch could provide moonlight sanctuary for some very sweet men who needed to console one another without counsel from those of us with no y-chromosome.


Our change took me away from Conway Christian School. When we enrolled Emma at CCS in third grade, I did an unexpected but enjoyable "permanent substitute" teaching stint for the school. Administration and faculty encouraged me to complete my non-traditional licensure, and supported me from those early first days -- when no doubt I was more a poser than a professional -- through the seasoning of my methods and talents over seven years, transitioning me into a career I came to love at a place that consistently called students to critically seek a Godly perspective in every classroom endeavor. For the insight, encouragement, and call to excellence for me and my children, I will always be thankful.

The move meant leaving our church home since 1989.  They welcomed us as young people, mourned with us when we could not conceive a child, and wept twice when we miscarried. They rejoiced with us at the birth of Claire, and two years later, they celebrated again, as we were shocked to discover God was blessing us with twins. They fed our family when I was on bed rest, visited me and kept me company and regaled me with laughter in my confinement. When our pregnancy became extremely complicated, our church family kept vigil at St. Vincent when, after some days, we finally delivered Emma and Sarah at 30 weeks. Emma was to come home with us after ten weeks in the NICU. Sarah, however, would be buried at our family cemetery at the foot of Magazine Mountain, and our church family would surround us with loving arms and support us all the way to recovery. Over the years, the old ladies pinched our babies' cheeks and beat on their fat thighs.  Many taught our girls, encouraged them, supported them in their activities and their relationship with the Lord.  Our siblings and both sets of parents worship there still; although we are gone, we leave pieces of ourselves behind.

I make all these observations to say that, sitting here in my new house in Searcy, wondering what the Lord has in store for us, it occurs that the best memories I have of that house, and of my school, and of my church, all have to do with the idea of shelter.  Shelter from weather, from the storms of broken hearts, from the solitary devastation of loss, shelter for talents and children to grow.  And of one thing I'm certain:  shelter for God's people is not about a safe room built with hands.  It's something people build with their hearts.  And the Summers family can do that anywhere.

Healthcare, SCOTUS, & Playing Nice

The administration of healthcare is a nightmare of complexity in our nation.  We all should be able to agree on that, at least. It’s an issue that is easy to passionately hold forth upon when one is alone with a computer screen, but when looking into the eyes of a human being with a severe illness and dire circumstances, some of the starch tends to run out of us.  At least I hope it does.

Those of us who have passionate convictions regarding the economic and governmental principles that should govern decisions about healthcare should take care, however, in our public responses to yesterday’s SCOTUS ruling. Whatever decisions may be made regarding the future disposition of the issue of universal coverage, there will most certainly be unintended consequences, so some humility is in order from both sides.  What we post online is likely to be retweeted and reposted, shared and re-shared, because everyone is examining responses to the ruling. 

To my friends who are not believers, I say, “Be nice. Venom does not further productive debate.” For my believing friends, let us all start each discussion and debate with an admonition from Colossians 4:5-6, "Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone." (NIV) I am taking the verse somewhat out of context, I realize; however, it’s useful to remember when our conversation is taking place in an e-fishbowl, that our every interaction represents something, and Someone, greater than ourselves. After all, the future of the kingdom does not depend on US domestic policy.

And finally and purely personally, I’d like to just add that people who have never had a moment’s self-doubt scare me most of all, regardless of their political convictions. If we enact our ideal choice of legislation regarding this issue today, chances are that the greatest long-term consequences for our nation will come home to roost a generation or two after we are dead. So we’ll never really know if it was the best decision or not, will we?

Black Flower in the White House

Condoleezza Rice spoke at Harding University last night. It was a delightful evening for the friendly, mostly Republican crowd. She expressed  gracious appreciation to the Concert Choir's performance, offered some reflections on diplomacy and governance in the post 9/11 world, and continued with some thoughts about the future of our country. She believes that our lack of success at providing effective education for our most at-risk young people may be our greatest national security risk.  She referred to her own past as a black youngster growing up in the "most segregated city in the United States" (Birmingham), and recalled that her ancestors were considered three-fifths of a person.  She used historic touchstones throughout the presentation to put current events into perspective. She is completely aware of our challenges, yet she is optimistic about the United States of America. She was self-possessed, easy, and polished. Afterward, she took some questions.

A student asked about reports that Muammar Gaddafi had a crush on her. Although no doubt she has told the story many times before, she still seemed to have an appropriately dignified yet girlish twinkle as she recounted it.

After the dismantling of the Soviet bloc, evil dictator and sponsor of terrorism and anti-American activities Gaddafi began to realize that the world was changing, and he became interested in repairing his reputation with the West. After Libya satisfied some specific requirements, the United States granted the formerly diplomatically-isolated country a visit from Secretary Rice.

When word got out that Secretary Rice was going to Libya, she began to receive calls from foreign ministers -- sort of the international diplomacy equivalent of  "Yo, Condi, you do know he has a thing for you, don't you?" Somewhat taken aback, Secretary Rice made the planned visit, which went completely according to protocol, right up until the end, when Muammar Gaddafi made his move. Imagine...

"Madame Secretary, I have a gift for you..."

"Really, General?"

"Yes.  It is a video that I made...especially for you."

"...oh...a...video, you say?"

"Yes.  Let me play it for you..."

I can only imagine her discomfiture at having to screen a video custom-made by her evil dictator/terrorist sponsor/stalker host, however, I have no doubt she did it with poise. The video turned out to be a montage of clips of her with heads of state and foreign ministers from all over the world. The kicker, however, was the soundtrack -- a song written at Gaddafi's behest by one of the premier composers of Libya. It was entitled, "Black Flower in the White House." No joke.

Condoleezza Rice has impeccable academic credentials, an impressive resume, and as the presidential campaign continues to develop, her name is mentioned frequently regarding a future either as a vice-presidential candidate or cabinet post. What is remarkable is that after last night, I felt like perhaps she might also be a pretty good friend. Someone a woman could go to lunch with, and discuss not only her work and her family,  but perhaps have a laugh at her authoritarian dictator-stalker-guy. I really liked her.

I think Gaddafi was probably right. She totally deserved the creepy honor he tried to pay her. I say let's get the Black Flower back to the White House again. Condoleezza Rice for Secretary of Education.

Lamb of God

She always sits on the last pew – right on the aisle. She wandered into our midst from some run-down rental property downtown, looking as if she were in need – of some basic hygiene instruction, perhaps of some medical care, perhaps even a case worker. She wandered in, as many people do in our downtown church neighborhood; they come in need of a bus ticket or a meal or with broken down cars. Many times, they come less to meet a spiritual need than a physical one, but they come nonetheless and we try to minister to those needs. They come bringing invisible baggage, and leave with -- "a cup of water," as it were. And then, usually, they move on.

Her social skills were childlike. She spoke much, much too loudly. If she were sitting alone and a thought occurred, she might speak it out into the air, as if hoping someone would seize her thread of thought and engage. Many people gave her polite nods; many knew her by first name only; some avoided her completely, passing by on the other aisle. She was odd, after all.

She began to attend almost every function at church, especially the potlucks. She would stay behind to help clean up, making sure people knew she was available when any leftover food was parceled out. “I sure could use that for my lunch tomorrow,” she would say too loudly. She frequently left with a container full of one thing or another.

At church this morning I sat in back, because I needed to leave a few minutes early. The congregation of 500 where I worship sings without instrumentation, and I usually like to find a sweet spot - close enough to the front to be able to follow the song director without lagging behind, but not so close that my eyes cross trying to read the screen, so I was a little annoyed at my seating arrangements going into the service today. The service began, and the director lead Twila Paris’ “Lamb of God.” And then I heard it from over my shoulder. It was an unpleasant, harsh sound which drowned the beautiful harmonies of the song, to which her singing bore only a vague similarity. It was almost comical, I thought. I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think with that right behind me. This would get old by the end of the service...I wished I had sat somewhere else. I completely stopped singing; I couldn’t find my note over that noise anyway.

Your only Son no sin to hide
But You have sent Him from Your side
To walk upon this guilty sod,
And to become the Lamb of God.

She painstakingly sang each and every word far too loudly, as a preschooler might sing. It was an innocent, awful, ernest rendition.

Your gift of Love they crucified
They laughed, and scorned him as he died.
The humble King they named a fraud,
And sacrificed the Lamb of God.

She continued without missing a beat, visibly concentrating on the screen, unaware that her dissonance might be a distraction to the worship of others. I heard each word for the first time in a long time.

Oh Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God --
I love the Holy Lamb of God;
Oh wash me in His precious Blood
My Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

I was so lost I should have died
But You have brought me to Your side
To be led by Your staff and rod
And to be called a lamb of God.

Oblivious to the appraisal of those around her, she drew me reluctantly and ashamed to a gift of worship this morning. I was reminded of Isaiah 64:6, “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” She reminded me that Christ longs for each one of us -- poorly dressed and dirty, whatever infects or infests us. No refinement or wisdom or pedigree or eloquence or elegance impresses him –- the holy one needs nothing from me. He benefits not at all from the beauty of my performance, from the appropriateness of my clothing, from the insightfulness of my presentation, from the tightness of our harmonies. We each come to him the same way -- helpless and hopeless in sin. But he cleanses and heals and nourishes and offers peace and reconciliation, and when it is all said and done he sees us, each one, as holy and blameless, and as worthy. Then he takes even “the least of these,” and empowers us to minister to those around us, as she did for me today, to his glory.

Thank you, sister.

Raise Your Voice

Tonight was singing night.

The first Sunday evening of every month, the assembly at my church begins with a succession of little ones each taking the podium (that is, standing on a box behind the communion table) and leading the entire congregation in a song of their choice, starting with the youngest and progressing roughly according to age. After all, Jesus said, "Suffer the little ones to come unto me," and under the "decency and order" clause, we figure height is as good an organizational tool as any. Tonight, four-year-old Reece led the charge. Usually he announces "one t'ousand fort-teen" or something similar, and launches into the melody, counting on the faithful to follow along.

During the first seconds of each song, the air is close with anticipation, as we all root silently for the kid to make the song happen. If the tiny song leader falters, some parent from a pew will seize upon a key that is singable and bear down loudly until the congregation picks it up and falls in line. Occasionally if the young song leader pitches the song too low, we rewrite the entire arrangement on the fly; the basses sing the melody and the sopranos do high harmony, so the parts all get sung. One thing about a cappella church music is that the arrangements are usually stacked with moving parts and echoes or countermelodies, and it just doesn't work unless someone gets about the business of filling in the blanks -- so we do. "No part left behind,"as it were,  to support the youngster who is up there staring down the faithful and leading the praise.

What will Reece remember about these nights, I wonder?  Will he remember the carpet on the box he stands on, the nicks and scratches on the black trim of the communion table, the smell of the foam that covers the microphone, the voices of the old folks who occupy the front pews?  Will he remember the feeling of the blood pounding in his ears as he finds 350 people looking back at him?  Will he remember Albert's kind face up in the sound booth?  Will he recall the love in the room?  I think not. Often we don't recognize love for what it is.  Sometimes love hugs and kisses and gives presents, but sometimes love just fills in the alto part from a distant pew, to support one of His little ones who is learning how to fill a "grown up" job in the kingdom.

Of course, someone in the rear of the auditorium may not be acting out of love, but just singing the words instead. Sad for that person.  Love frames pedestrian obedience as calling.   It energizes every enterprise. It changes "sing along with the kids" into "lift up the future worship leaders of the church."  A loving motive enriches us as it glorifies the Father and helps the youngster. Reece may not remember the love in the room, but we frequently don't recognize love when we receive its benefits.  We all stand on the shoulders of those who raised us, taught us, or perhaps sang along with us when our own early solo efforts were insufficient -- and in a way,  it's all the sweeter that we aren't aware of the support at the time.  That's what we call grace.

A Lesson from Dr. Manor's Traveling Archeology Show

Sitting cross-legged on the print carpet in my family’s den sometime during the latter days of the Nixon administration, my father mused, “Some day, if the world goes on, I will no longer be here…and if the world goes on even longer, there’ll come a time when no one remembers that I ever was.” There was more to that conversation, but that particular moment is frozen in memory—perhaps because, to a child, any thought of a parent’s death is startling, and perhaps because Dad said it so matter-of-factly. He wasn’t given to melodrama, but he thought deeply about great truths and didn’t back down from sharing with a kid after he’d ruminated on them for a while.

Tonight was what, being a history teacher,  I have affectionately dubbed “Biblical Archeology Wednesday.” For six weeks, my church has been the recipient of lessons at our mid-week meeting from the intrepid Dr. Dale Manor, a professor of archeology.  He arrives each week wearing a memorable tie, with a laptop and slides and a stainless steel case, foam-lined. In it, he transports artifacts, which he displays with little labels on a piece of fabric on the communion table. It’s a dog and pony show he’s done many times before. One thing I have learned from him:  it’s a cliche of the trade, but for guys in his discipline, one man’s trash truly becomes another's proverbial treasure, if it’s buried for a millennium or two. In a way, looking at someone's discards from long ago compels us to put our own lives into perspective.

For thousands of years, people have contemplated their own demise, as Dad did that night.  Tonight’s presentation by Dr. Manor explored how people of the ancient world viewed the idea of an afterlife. He surveyed Canaanites, the Mesopotamians, and Egyptians – all of whom clearly believed that they would live somewhere after death. The evidence? Burial artifacts and cultural documentation, such as the Egyptian scroll depicting the scene of final judgment – the “weighing of the heart” ceremony. The Egyptians believed that there was a correlation between our worthiness and our eternal destiny, the end of which would be revealed in a ceremony where the heart was weighed against a feather on a scale of justice to reveal one’s fate in the afterlife. An impossible standard.  Not many would pass the test, I’m thinking.  Perhaps none.

We looked at some signals the Hebrews had given us in scripture; there were signs that they, too, believed that somehow they would go to rest “with their fathers” after death. David the king took comfort in the belief that he would see his dead child again. Various figures in the Old Testament are described as being “gathered to their people” after death. Job said, “after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God.”  Christ reminded the Sadducees that God claimed to be “the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob,” and that He was clearly not the God of the dead, but of the living.  Of course, the New Testament is filled with resurrection talk and promises of an afterlife.

The most fascinating tidbit tonight was an artifact found in a Jerusalem escarpment burial cave called Ketef Hinnom. In the burial trappings of a Hebrew family was a silver amulet, and inside was a rolled-up sheet of silver which, when unrolled, revealed the “Priestly Benediction,” Numbers 6:24-26:

The LORD bless you and keep you; 
the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you;
 the LORD turn His face toward you and give you peace.

This find was significant for dating the writing of the Old Testament and for confirming the reliability of existing manuscripts. At the time it was found, it was the earliest occurrence of a Biblical text in an extra-Biblical document, significantly predating the earliest of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Tonight it is significant to me for another reason. We were encouraged by Dr. Manor to consider this scripture that we have read and sung as a benediction for so many years -- not as a parting blessing from an assembly-- but as a processional for loved ones who stand on the doorstep of the next life, waiting to see the Lord’s face and confident that they will be graciously received. If we all relied on the weight of our hearts to balance some supposed scale at that time, we would surely be without hope. But through the Lord’s provision in the perfect sacrifice of Christ, Christians can have faith that we will be seen as “holy and blameless” by the loving Father who greets us there. Yes, someday you and I may die, and no one here may even remember that we lived.  But there is something better waiting through that door.

The American Taliban Prequel

Tonight I’m thinking about John Philip Walker Lindh, who was caught and imprisoned by the U.S. during the 2001 invasion of Afghanistan.  I’m  also thinking about my childhood experience at Maywood Christian Camp.  I think it must have been in 1968, although I can’t prove it.  Mothers were not nearly as obsessed with documenting childhood then, and my memories are vague.  I was perhaps eight years old and had never been to any kind of camp, or much of any place else,  before. I think it was in Tennessee, although I can’t prove that, either. I do think these events actually happened, however, because I can prove it with dental records.

We boarded a bus at Northwood Hills Church of Christ in Florence, Alabama, and off we went to the hardship of the wilderness, much like the Isrealites, who were also God’s people.  When we arrived,  they divided us into cabins which were named, I think, for the cities in Canaan.  I was in Shechem A.  There was a Shechem B as well.  There was a cabin named Gilgal, and one called Bethel, and Shiloh.  I don’t recall the others. 

I remember they served us cold chocolate milk in glistening aluminum pitchers at breakfast, and that I ate eggs for breakfast with great relish, which was odd because my mother’s eggs on the breakfast table at home nauseated me.  I remember that I won third place in the archery contest.  I remember that I made some kind of wooden box with tiny square tiles on top, and a lanyard, although I didn’t quite know what one was supposed to do with a lanyard.

I dived into the swimming pool one day and somehow chipped my front permanent tooth on the concrete, leaving half of it at the bottom of the pool.  No one called my parents or a dentist, or tried to retrieve the lost part.  I don’t really know if I called it to the attention of anyone in authority.  Today insurance and physician information along with signed liability waivers would be required before participating in an activity during which I could potentially have disfigured myself, but back then parents just put us on the bus and happily shipped us off, no questions asked, and the camp shipped us back on schedule, scratches and dents notwithstanding.

One thing I recall clearly, and that is that the showers were communal ones.  By that I mean they were not merely in a central location, but they were –- well—communal.  No stalls, no walls, no curtains.   I recall my complete mortification at the idea that I was expected to disrobe right there in front of God and the older girls with body parts I did not have yet – and tend to my personal hygiene.  So I refused.  I swam every day, but  during shower time I made myself scarce, and not once during the week did I join the other girls who were less modest and more conscientious about their personal toilette.

I also recall saving my one clean sweatshirt, a white one, to wear back home.  The last morning of camp I donned the sweatshirt, brushed my chlorine frizzed hair -- which was, by this time, a bush -- put on my glasses and headed down toward the bus, tripping over a root and tumbling head-over-heels down a clay embankment to land in an untidy heap at the bottom where the bus was parked.  

When I arrived back at the church, after riding the entire way with the bus windows open and the wind blowing through my ever-expanding hair,  singing "Kum Ba Yah" and "Michael Row the Boat Shore" all the way back, I bounded to the door of the bus to greet my mother with a gap-toothed smile, the red clay of Canaan's land covering both my clothes and my face. She hugged me and took me home as if nothing were out of the ordinary, for dental intervention the following day.

Flash forward to the American invasion of Afghanistan, when the U.S. army captures an American citizen named John Philip Walker Lindh. He is wearing the garb of the enemy and aiding the Taliban. There was a great outcry about his treason, and a photo of "The American Taliban” was on the cover of Time magazine. 43 years later, my saintly mother’s only comment when she saw his photo on CNN?  "He looks exactly like you when you got off the bus from Maywood Christian Camp, dear."  Ouch.

Lamb of God

She always sits on the last pew – right on the aisle. She wandered into our midst from some run-down rental property downtown, looking as if she were in need – of some basic hygiene instruction, perhaps of some medical care, perhaps even a case worker. She wandered in, as many people do in our downtown church neighborhood; they come in need of a bus ticket or a meal or with broken down cars. Many times, they come less to meet a spiritual need than a physical one, but they come nonetheless and we try to minister to those needs. They come bringing invisible baggage, and leave with -- "a cup of water," as it were. And then, usually, they move on.

But this one kept coming back. Poorly educated, probably learning disabled. Hard to say whether she actually had basic cognitive skills to understand a lot of things. Many times she had not bathed, sometimes she looked as if she might have some sort of infection on her skin. Did that need to be covered with a bandage? Her hair was a greasy, wavy mess. Eventually someone cut it short, but by that time I wondered if head lice had led to the new look. Eventually someone gave her some “Sunday” dresses that were more “appropriate.”

Her social skills were childlike. She spoke much, much too loudly. If she were sitting alone and a thought occurred, she might speak it out into the air, as if hoping someone would seize her thread of thought and engage. Many people gave her polite nods; many knew her by first name only; some avoided her completely, passing by on the other aisle. She was odd, after all.

She began to attend almost every function at church, especially the potlucks. She would stay behind to help clean up, making sure people knew she was available when any leftover food was parceled out. “I sure could use that for my lunch tomorrow,” she would say too loudly.

At church this morning I sat in back, because I needed to leave a few minutes early. The congregation of 500 where I worship sings congregationally, without instrumentation, and I usually like to find a sweet spot - close enough to the front to be able to follow the worship leader without lagging behind, but not so close that my eyes cross trying to read the screen, so I was a little annoyed at my seating arrangements going into the service today. The service opened with Twila Paris’ “Lamb of God.” And then I heard it from over my shoulder --  an unpleasant, harsh sound which drowned the beautiful harmonies of the song, to which her singing bore only a vague similarity. It was almost comical; I wouldn’t be able to hear myself think with that right behind me. This would get old by the end of the service...I wished I had sat somewhere else. I completely stopped singing; I couldn’t find my note over that noise anyway.

Your only Son no sin to hide
But You have sent Him from Your side
To walk upon this guilty sod,
And to become the Lamb of God.

She painstakingly sang each and every word far too loudly, as a preschooler might sing. It was an innocent, awful, ernest rendition.

Your gift of Love they crucified
They laughed, and scorned him as he died.
The humble King they named a fraud,
And sacrificed the Lamb of God.

She continued without missing a beat, visibly concentrating on the screen, unaware that her dissonance might be a distraction to the worship of others. I heard each word for the first time in a long time.

Oh Lamb of God, sweet Lamb of God --
I love the Holy Lamb of God;
Oh wash me in His precious Blood
My Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God.

I was so lost I should have died
But You have brought me to Your side
To be led by Your staff and rod
And to be called a lamb of God.

Oblivious to the appraisal of those around her, she drew me reluctantly and ashamed to a gift of worship this morning. I was reminded of Isaiah 64:6, “All of us have become like one who is unclean, and all our righteous acts are like filthy rags; we all shrivel up like a leaf, and like the wind our sins sweep us away.” She reminded me that Christ longs for each one of us -- poorly dressed and dirty, whatever infects or infests us. No refinement or wisdom or pedigree or eloquence or elegance impresses him –- the holy one needs nothing from me. He benefits not at all from the beauty of my performance, from the appropriateness of my clothing, from the insightfulness of my presentation, from the tightness of our harmonies. We each come to him the same way -- helpless and hopeless in sin. But he cleanses and heals and nourishes and offers peace and reconciliation, and when it is all said and done he sees us, each one, as holy and blameless, and as worthy. Then he takes even “the least of these,” and empowers us to minister to those around us, as she did for me today, to his glory.

Thank you, sister.

Lessons from The Halflings

From my files: This is an homage to the only 7th grade class I ever taught, back in 2008.

I met the Halflings, as I call my first 7th grade class—exultant at the move from cubbies to their first lockers, which they promptly festooned with an explosion of personal memorabilia— with some trepidation. Even at our smallish private school campus, they were obviously concerned as to whether they would be able to find their way, wide-eyed, from class to class with only four minutes between. Since then, we have written in hieroglyphics, witnessed the Barbarian attacks on Rome, survived the Black Death, wrapped our Arkansas tongues around "Après moi, le deluge," and most lately, been horrified by the conditions in the trenches on the Western Front.

Tonight I am grading history test papers, feeling at once ready for this school year to end and reluctant to let this group of 7th graders move on. In some ways, a group of 7th grade boys can be like a litter of Labrador puppies, all arms and legs and braces, snorting at the inside joke, poking one another, making bizarre noises, falling over one another in the hall, launching paper hornets at the unsuspecting student -- and drumming, always drumming on the desktop. The girls, their uniforms carefully accessorized to define their personalities, do their homework with big loopy handwriting, some dot their i’s with hearts, and all carefully walk the tightrope between childhood and womanhood, baffled at the joy the boys take in the flight of an errant paper hornet, yet interested in them just the same.

As I grade their test papers on The Great War, I'm amused at young Will, who has listed among the causes for World War I "individualism" -- which can be a problem, I guess, if taken to the extreme, although I have never thought it dangerous enough to create global conflict. Perhaps he was searching for "imperialism."

He was not alone in his momentary confusion. Someone said “artilliarism” was one of the causes. Another reached back and pulled out “Inquisition” and thought perhaps the Catholic Church had contributed to the war. One student recounted “materialism” and another listed “manism.” I hardly knew how to respond to that. My favorite by far was "metabolism" instead of militarism. Those who wage perpetual war against fat could probably make a decent case for that one.

Then there was the student who said the “Automan” Empire was one of the belligerents. Reminded me of a franchise place you go to have your oil changed in 30 minutes or less. An otherwise very bright student started out on the wrong foot on this test-- by misspelling his own name. Perhaps it had something to do with the full moon. Or fatigue. The school year grows to a close, and we are all weary.

This wiggling mass of 7th grade humanity has been a delight to me this year. They have challenged me, surprised me, occasionally horrified me, inspired me, and made me laugh. They reminded me what it was like to be at the border crossing between twelve and the land of the teens, without the muscles of the big boys yet, but with the heart of a lion and the gifts to contribute so much, whatever they decide to do when they lay down their paper hornets. I will always remember them.