House on the Rock

 Probably once a month, I walk to the library. But in case you can already see right through my pretentious grandiosity, fine, you win. I don't actually walk all the way to the library. Too far. I find a place to park less than a mile away, lace up my shoes, and walk from that conveniently-placed parking lot to the library. Sue me! While it would be easy to fire up the iPad and download an eBook, I desperately crave the preservation of days of old - the good ol' days  - when technology was more of an idea than an idol and the thought of screen time was limited to a family movie around a box TV. A digital book absolutely cannot guarantee the following pleasures I have recently taken a liking to: The vintage smell of leather covers and wood pulp adhesives that bind books together The shuffle of strangers in search of a story The "have you read this?" conversations under dim fluorescent lighting The librarian, Jeanette, who seems to know me better than I know myself Of c...

 Sorry, I can't indulge this anxiety right now. I would, but today started with a sunrise that turned the whole earth orange, blanketing  the morning with a winsome warmness that drew me out of bed and toward the sky. Then, I stepped outside to see that my plants were in fact growing, and I remembered, so am I. The fear of tomorrow that might have crept in was interrupted by morning glories, both in sky and flower form, and I'm going to have to postpone that indulgence. And sorry, I can't give way to my self-pity right now. There is deep sadness that abounds, that is certain. Life is hard and grief is as sure as the passing of time, but there is also hope that lasts for the long haul. Errorless Scriptures about a risen savior. There is a comforting truth, deeper than the grief, that a good life was not promised but a great eternity will be. The deep pains of a fallen world might come back, and there will be time to wail, but the hope is talking louder today and I think I...

 "Please take out your composition notebooks," I say almost robotically. It comes as automatically as hello and how are you because every day, at the beginning of every class, we journal. Students open up that black and white sort of splatter-paint surface and unleash the depths of their preadolescent imaginations. The inside, I must presume, is bursting with ideas and dreams, brainstormed lists, colored memories. Vocabulary words in every margin, I'm certain of it. And stories. Oh, the stories. The questions and revelations as they come of age in a world marked by a seemingly endless cycle of unprecedented news. "Dream, my little writers." Or, on days I'm feeling especially ambitious: "Write, my little dreamers." So you can probably imagine my surprise when, with these awe-inspiring prompts and persuasions, I walk by a student and find them on the first page of the notebook. My initial reaction is always best-assuming: They must write from the bac...

Seldom would it seem that my too-crispy top lasagna noodle could be a tool for gospel impact. The burnt-and-yet-raw phenomenon that is my skillet chicken would, at face value, be an unlikely weapon for waging war against sin or sadness or loneliness in the lives of those around me. But when I stop to consider the sheer magnitude of meals shared in homes that it must have taken for the gospel to reach me from where it started, it is staggering. Presumably there have been chefs worse than myself. If not worse, less equipped: no air-fryer, no Stauffer's heat-and-eat chicken enchiladas, no refrigeration. Sometimes no table, and yet they gathered. The table I have and the food set upon it, from Domino's delivery to attempted tortellini, is a sacred and essential gathering that might be a step toward earth as it is in heaven. Hospitality as a gospel mission, burnt edges and all. Making Jesus known to the nations, noodle by crispy noodle.

"Nothing will grow if your roots are rotten," a student with far more botanical knowledge than myself  only semi-critically whispered as she examined the classroom plants that line my window wall. I breathed in the metaphor as she unpotted and vowed to repot my greenish-brown broken promise from August when I said I'd keep these leaves alive. But staying alive with rotten roots is every bit impossible for a plant and a person -- I think back to that dreadful day in the garden, the original sin that rotted me to my core, the rotten roots that would end my life had the master gardener not come to tread on the very dirt He created and vowed to make me altogether new. Repotted, restored to wholeness and fullness, able to grow despite my rotten roots. It defies botany and science and all common sense that the creator of mountains and nations would take on my root-rot, die and then rise, that I might be planted in the soil of salvation and forever be alive.

 It's day one of trimester three. You'll sit in swivel chairs alphabetically until I learn who talks to who and I'll secretly try to pair up those among you that seem to flirt or fix their gaze, but mostly I'll put such lovers on opposite sides of the room to protect you from preadolescent heartache. I'll tell you that we'll learn about gerunds and participles, but really what I want you to walk away with is how deeply loved and treasured you are -- not only by your English teacher but also by a Holy Creator of the Universe who spoke galaxies into existence and deemed your life worthy of a spot on that eternal cosmic blueprint. I hope you learn that you are more than your number of followers; that your life won't look like famous Tik-Tokkers and that's a good thing -- your life is real. I hope you learn that you are more than your grades but that you are capable of being the spark that starts a fire in every sphere you settle. I hope you know participles...

I wonder when it was that I fell deeper in love with you. Was it when you were going to be away for an evening and you let me leave every single light on so I wouldn't be scared alone? Perhaps it was that morning that you got out of bed and scraped the ice off my windows because I had to go to work early and you didn't. Maybe it was the last bite of cheesecake or the fact that you repeatedly, lovingly, sacrificially refrained from challenging my Scrabble words like fird. It might have been the small mid-prayer knee touches on wintry Sunday mornings or the selfless willingness to keep the lamp for my unkept promise of "just one more page." Maybe it's the empty dishwasher that could have only been you or the open Bibles sprawled across our kitchen table as you daily devour the life-transforming truth. It might be the hugs after granting forgiveness or the Monon walks where we feel no pressure to talk, but simply to walk in stride, a pace slightly faster than you...

 We're finishing up year 5 of January 2023, a marathon of a month marked by perpetual grayness, coldness, darkness, sadness. It's been a seemingly unending saga of sunlessness and the ramifications are evident. Students are on edge, irritable, quick to anger, sad. Teachers aren't all that different.  The few infrequent bursts of blue sky summon us to stop and soak in its seldom-seen splendor. On one particularly bitter (both air and people) afternoon last week, a cerulean canopy enveloped the world outside my window for a brief but magical moment. Participial phrases had suddenly lost their luster as the class seemed captivated, desperate to savor the sunlight that had for so long gone unseen.  I walked to the window and took in a breath. Thank you God, I whispered. I soon felt the presence of five, ten, then twenty students surrounding me. Silent. Staring. Savoring the blueness. One characteristically football-minded freshman even lifted his hands to the sky and said, ...

It's Martin Luther King Day. I opened the blinds in our bedroom window, which I don't normally do because the window provides a direct view to our master bath toilet, which, if occupied, could bring potential for demoralizing eye contact. But today, the window was open, the sky a sort of velvety purple-blue with streaks of pink and yellow that made rooves and siding sparkle.  The morning looked uniquely hopeful. The all-too-common January grayness seemed to have evaporated, if only for the few moments surrounding that sunrise. Despite being 33 degrees with rain on the horizon, I could have been convinced that spring was right around the corner. The promised resurrection of life - flowers blooming, grass re-greening, birds returning with their song - brought a beautiful lessening of the winter doldrums. "We're going to make it," I thought, knowing it is the very promise of that spring that makes winter endurable. From the despair - the coldness, the grayness, the p...

It is absolutely crazy to think that this marks my 5th annual year-end recap blog. The first one happened when I was a college sophomore. Clueless, hopeful, and completely oblivious to all the work God was going to do over the next five years. As 2022 draws to a close, I cherish this time to reflect on His faithfulness from beginning to end. January: The month of the grueling Whole(almost)30. We tried to remedy a year of bad eating by a month of dietary detoxing, which bound us to spaghetti squash and pitted dates for dessert. It was humbling, infuriating, unfulfilling and short-lived. We made it two weeks before caving on a wintry Friday night and eating an entire bag of Fannie May's S'mores Mix. We also played three dozen games of Catan and finished all of Friday Night Lights. February: February is probably the biggest blur. We met with people who would eventually join The Fields Church, watched the SuperBowl with company new and old, enjoyed being almost a full month removed...