Jesus Dances……..AGAIN!

Lately Jesus and I have not been getting along. Ok, that’s an overstatement. Let me try again. I don’t think Jesus is taking me seriously. I’m not even sure he is really listening. I feel a little like I am talking to a 14-year-old girl who’s rolling her eyes and saying, “Blah, blah, blah…..I’ve heard this all before.” Or maybe like I’m talking to my husband when he’s playing guitar. He nods, but I never know if he’s nodding because he’s listening to what I am saying or if he’s really nodding to some invisible beat in his head.

Yesterday I was attempting to pray. Now the truth is that I have recently had some difficulties in this department. First difficulty is that I haven’t actually been praying.  So one reason Jesus may not be a good listener right now is that I haven’t been saying much of anything.  Now of course he is God and he should know the unspoken prayers in my heart, but I have to face that he may be tired of doing ALL the work in this relationship. (The good news is that I feel 100% confident that Jesus won’t break up with me). My second major difficulty is that when I decide to remedy the situation my mind won’t cooperate. It rambles; it flits; it skips; it gets stuck in the ditch. It’s like hiking with an unruly 2-year-old.

Back to yesterday, I was working hard, keeping my toddler-esque mind on one of those “kid leashes” you see in the airport. (If I could keep my mind on a “kid leash,” it would be a monkey leash!)  Anyway, I was working hard sharing all my concerns with Jesus. Here’s a sampling: I need a job and an income; where am I going with my blogging and my writing; what should I be doing with my life; why can’t I just be a normal person. Now let me back up again and say that when I pray, I imagine my Jesus (“Hippie Jesus”) sitting with me on Folly Beach and listening attentively and lovingly. That’s just the kind of guy he is (in my mind).

So during my prayer yesterday, guess what my Jesus was doing? You would never, ever guess. He was dancing…..again. (Ok, you could have guessed because it’s in the title, and, if you are really paying attention, you might remember this is the second time Jesus has danced in my prayers). But unlike the first time when Jesus danced, trying to engage me and cheer me up, this time his dancing was a little frustrating. He was smiling, but he was also very obviously not listening. “Hey! I’m talking here!” I said, putting my hands on my hips. “Really??!! This is how it’s going to be today. That’s just great. This is important stuff. This is MY life.” He never did stop and listen. Now that I think about it, I guess I could have just given in and started dancing, too. But I was trying to make a point.

I have been mad with Jesus before (when my dog died when my mom was in ICU, I was really, really mad, but that’s another story). But I couldn’t really be mad with him this time because the whole thing sort of cracked me up. And even while I was ranting at him, I knew he was trying to tell me something. Honestly, I just didn’t want to hear it.

So I have been wondering what Jesus may have been trying to share with me. And I have a few ideas. Maybe I worry about the wrong stuff. What’s important to me (money, what other people think, for example) isn’t really important to Jesus. And sometimes what frustrates me the very most is that he simply refuses to give me a roadmap to follow.

Of course, now that I think of it, anyone who knows me well (and that has to include Jesus) would know that if Jesus actually walked into Starbucks right now and handed me my personal roadmap, that I would probably not follow it! I can see me looking at my sparkly life-plan with my name in fancy calligraphy, and I would probably say, “Oh. This isn’t for me. You must mean another Lee Hunter.”

Why in the world would I do that, you might ask? Because I want to do what I want to do, and, knowing Jesus, he would probably want me to do something hard, un-glamourous, and with absolutely no personal glory, and maybe even no income. Uh-oh. Maybe I am the 14-year-old girl who’s not listening. I talk and talk and ask Jesus to help me discern, blah, blah, blah, but then, when he does what I ask, I stand there with my fingers in my ears, humming a tune, saying, “I can’t hear you.”

The long and short of it is that I don’t know where I am going. But I can take deep comfort in what I do know right now. Jesus adores me (even though I don’t know why); Jesus listens to me (even when I make him—and myself—nuts); Jesus is slowly bringing me along my path, no need for a monkey leash. Because I am coming. I do hear him.  I am following him, just with fits, starts, stumbles, bruised knees, and yes, occasionally, falling in the ditch. But he reaches out and helps me up and—always—waits for me. And, oh yeah. Next time……I will dance.

Forget Who’s Your Daddy, Who’s Your Jesus?

If you have a teenage son, you may have seen the Will Ferrell movie Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. If you don’t have a teenage son, you may have missed it, and you may be happy that you missed it. Cinematic genius it’s not. However, this movie contains one of my very favorite scenes of all time. NASCAR driver Ricky Bobby (Will Farrell) and his sidekick Cal (John C. Reilly) are seated at the dinner table with Ricky’s family, and Ricky says “grace” before the meal. If you are not easily offended and can leave your sense of propriety and decorum here, check out this YouTube clip: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5A0-u85aAYg.  By the way, the prayer is over a little after minute 3, so you can stop there if you’d rather not see Ricky’s boys Walker and Texas Ranger verbally abuse their grandfather.

What I love about this scene is both the satire of what one prays for (“Thank you for my red-hot smoking wife” and the “21.2 million dollars”) and to whom one prays (“Little 8 lb. 6 oz. newborn infant Jesus”). The first time I saw it I was struck by the notion that each family member had a particular Jesus they preferred: adult, bearded Jesus (the traditional Jesus); Jesus in a tuxedo t-shirt singing lead vocals for Lynyrd Skynyrd (the informal Jesus who likes to party); Jesus as a ninja fighting evil samurai (super-hero Jesus); and Baby Jesus in his “golden fleece diaper” (Christmas Jesus).

But that scene also made me think about how I imagine Jesus in my prayers. While Ricky Bobby likes Baby Jesus best, my favorite Jesus is “Hippie Jesus,” bearded, cool, all about social justice and loving everyone. Hippie Jesus, for me, is like your older brother’s best friend who you have a crush on, but you know it will never work out. He’s always nice to you, but you realize he’s way out of your league.

Hippie Jesus

When I was growing up, our family rarely went to church, so my “formal” theology was fixed by my father’s appreciation of the album Jesus Christ Superstar which was released when I was about 7 years old. We had it on 8-track for the car; the music would blare from the rear speakers, and occasionally my dad would chuckle, although at the time I never understood what was funny. We also had the double album, complete with song book containing all the lyrics. I would sit in front of the Hi-Fi with that book and sing as loud as I could (if you have ever heard me sing, you would know that I had extremely loving and patient parents). As I look back, I realize that I fell in love with the “Hippie Jesus” of Jesus Christ Superstar without ever actually seeing him—the album and song book contained no pictures, much to my distress. But I was transfixed and mesmerized by “Jesus Christ Superstar Jesus” and, well, I guess I still have a crush on him.

Is it ok to have a “favorite” Jesus, I wonder? In the scene, Cal imagines Jesus in a tuxedo t-shirt singing with Lynyrd Skynyrd. Should we be offended by that? When my son was little, he imagined Jesus as center fielder for the Chicago Cubs. I figured Will thought the only way the Cubs would ever win a world series in his lifetime is if Jesus was on the team!

In 2002 Popular Mechanics used forensic science to recreate what the historic Jesus might have looked like. Is this the Jesus we should be praying to?

Popular Mechanic’s Jesus

What about a black Jesus? Since Jesus was middle-Eastern, he was probably much darker-skinned that most of us Americans have traditionally envisioned him.

Black Jesus

Is there a danger to creating the Jesus we want to know? Does it make Jesus less of a divine savior and more of the god we want him to be? Or do you suppose that Jesus is just happy that we are thinking of him—and, hopefully, in relationship with him? I honestly don’t know. I do know, however, that one of my weaknesses in imagining “Hippie Jesus” when I pray is that I emphasize the human qualities of Jesus, which make me more comfortable. The almighty power of Jesus as God, especially the idea of divine judgment, makes me a little nervous. (I’m not sure I’m going to make the cut)! But when I come right down to it, I believe that Jesus understands our human limitations in knowing him; loves us in spite of ourselves; and delights in our reaching out to him in any way we can. “Hippie Jesus,” at least, has a “wicked” sense of humor, and I like to think the scene from Talladega Nights makes him chuckle and maybe shake his head at the truth behind the humor.

So who’s your Jesus? Shepherd Jesus? Little Baby Jesus? Baseball Jesus? I’d love to know what YOUR Jesus looks like.

Atlanta’s Snow-pocalypse or “Don’t Be Afraid, Y’all!”

Roswell, GA Traffic

In my part of the world, it’s hard to focus on anything else but the events of this last Tuesday and Wednesday, when Atlanta suffered from what I have to call a “perfect storm,” pun intended! Snow arrived early; every business in town closed early; schools dismissed early.  The whole city was on the road at one time. If you know Atlanta, you know that’s a recipe for disaster, regardless of the weather; on a good day, Atlanta traffic is bad. So you start with horrific traffic, add an inch or two of snow, and top it all off with a sheet of ice and, voila, it’s a lovely “snow-pocalypse.” If you are in any other part of the country, you have probably seen the horrific pictures of traffic jams and heard the stories of folks being stranded for HOURS in their cars on the gridlocked expressways. If you are here in Atlanta, that’s pretty much ALL you have seen as our local stations pre-empted other shows and focused solely on the chaos.

Now that the city is slowly getting back to normal (and I emphasize slowly), the emphasis moves from WHAT happened that Tuesday to WHY it happened and most importantly, WHO’S to blame. Although these are important conversations to have, I don’t want the “finger-pointing” and the “blame-game” to be what Atlantans and the rest of the world take away from this whole mess.  Here’s what I want us to know and remember from the “snow-pocalypse”: the people of our city showed remarkable kindness and generosity to help those in need.

Suzanne in her element

One of my favorite stories comes from my dear friend Suzanne, a wife, mom, preschool teacher, who has a personality as bubbly as a Coca-cola after the can’s been shaken vigorously! Suzanne is smart, funny, caring, capable and confident. She also is one of those people who has a deep, personal connection with God, seeing God’s hand everywhere in the world around her and trusting God to work in her life and in others’.  Her faith and trust have inspired me throughout our friendship, and her adventure during the “Snow-pocalypse” is just one more example of her faithful spirit.

Finding herself on an icy, impassable road on Tuesday afternoon, Suzanne parked her car and began walking toward home. Her first goal was Publix, a grocery store about 2 miles away. There she hoped to find shelter, charge her phone and come up with a plan to get home. Unfortunately, she found Publix’s doors locked, but instead of giving up, Suzanne knocked until a manager came to the door.  She then insisted that he not only let her in, but that he also keep his store open for others, who, as night was falling, would need shelter from the storm. (We can only hope that he followed her instructions!) Suzanne contacted her neighbor, who has a 4-wheel drive, and he offered to come pick her up, as he hoped to also pick up his wife who was trying to get home from work.

Bill passing out soup

Bill made it to Suzanne in his truck, bringing with him a thermos of soup he had made earlier in the day, and he and Suzanne began the journey to pick up his wife. Along the way, they passed out paper cups of soup and bottles of water to stranded motorists and walkers.  By the time they reached Bill’s wife, she had been joined by 3 other friends and colleagues who were unable to get home that night. Realizing that getting back to Bill’s or Suzanne’s home would be close to impossible at this point in the evening—the roads had deteriorated further and were now full of stranded and wrecked cars–Bill’s wife remembered a work colleague, Dr. McNeil, who had earlier offered his home to her. Of course, now she was no longer a party of 1 but a party of 6, so she hesitated contacting him. The group’s options were slim, however, so she decided to make the call, and, without a moment of hesitation, Dr. and Mrs. McNeil generously invited all to their home for the night.

Suzanne tells of the McNeil’s hospitality and generosity. Mrs. McNeil had laid out 6 pairs of beautiful silk pajamas for her guests; their hosts offered showers, towels, lotion; they opened wine; and they added whatever they could find in the pantry to the pot of soup and kept it hot on the stove. Suzanne said, “I loved it! It was like going through rush again! We all shared our stories and strangers became friends!” Beds were in short supply so Suzanne bunked with a young woman and talked long into the night, just like girls do.

Suzanne, right, and other guests at the snow-party

The next day as the ice slowly melted and roads became passable again, Suzanne and her group were all able to get home. The “bottomless pot of soup” helped serve as breakfast, along with the toast and eggs served by their hosts. For Suzanne, it was all a big adventure. She tells me that she was never afraid or worried. From the moment she got out of her car and began walking, she knew she would be all right.

Looking back, Suzanne remembered the woman in the car behind her on that icy, impassable road, when Suzanne first began her journey. That woman was anxious and afraid. “I’m not from around her,” she told Suzanne, “I’m from Dallas, Georgia.” Suzanne gave the woman her bottled water, directions to downtown Roswell and city hall, about a mile away, where she could get shelter, and advised her to take action now as the sun would go down in about an hour or so. Suzanne left the woman sitting in her car, hands on the wheel, seatbelt fastened, but going nowhere. Suzanne told me that fear had so paralyzed the woman that she couldn’t move.  The woman felt safest in her car, that was what she knew, and, unlike Suzanne, she turned her back on comfort, shelter, and, in Suzanne’s opinion, a “good experience.”

Did I say earlier that God has often used Suzanne to tell me important stuff? I think God knows that I am more apt to listen to Suzanne rather than Him (she is dang funny and tells a good story). So when Suzanne finished her story, I thought, “Hmmm. Which one would I be? Brave, faithful, trusting Suzanne, accepting the generosity and love of strangers (and offering those strangers the same in return), or the woman afraid to leave what was most familiar to her, who couldn’t trust herself, others or God, and who ultimately missed the adventure of a lifetime.” I know which one I WANT to be. How about you?

Postscript: Right before I was to post this, Suzanne sent me another photo. Here’s what she wrote on her kitchen door last Sunday, before “Snow-pocalypse”! I told you that she and God were tight!

“Embrace change struggles–learn! joy *to move away from something in order to honor God, you must move towards something to honor God”

“She Hath Done What She Could”

All Saints Chapel, Sewanee, TN

For a number of years, my church, St. David’s, has offered a woman’s retreat in the fall to St. Mary’s Retreat Center in Sewanee, Tennessee. If you are not Episcopalian, you may not know that the University of the South, an Episcopal college and seminary, is also in Sewanee. And on the campus of the University of the South is All Saint’s Chapel, a lovely Gothic-style cathedral, breath-taking and awe-inspiring.

All Saints

On my first visit to All Saints, I was a bit taken aback by the sheer number of memorial plaques found throughout the chapel’s interior. Everywhere I looked I saw remembrances of important people. The walls were covered with bronze tablets; the stained-glass windows offered brass plates; the pews and even the interior columns had memorial markers. Almost all of these markers noted the prestigious roles and titles of the dead: teacher; commander; librarian; bishop; founder; chancellor; senator. The great majority of those memorialized were men.

One marker, however, stood out by the sheer simplicity and humbleness of the message. “In Memory Of Mary Josephine Tidball. She hath done what she could.”

Here were all these important people who had served their country in battle; who had built and served the university; who had held public office, and there was poor Mary Josephine with her sad “claim to fame” of doing what she could. My friends and I shared a good laugh at Mary’s Josephine’s expense, I’m afraid. I kept imagining a downtrodden mom, maybe living in a trailer out in the country, with a slew of children running around barefoot and dirty. “Poor Mary, bless her heart, she has all those kids, her house is a mess, her husband’s outa work. Bless her heart, she’s just done what she could.” (You may need to be Southern to understand that sentiment fully)! It seemed to me that poor Mary Josephine looked a bit outclassed compared to all these men who had gone bravely into battle, who were learned gentlemen, who were distinguished teachers. In stark contrast to their accomplishments, my poor Mary Josephine had only “done what she could.” Bless her heart.

But then my friends and I realized that doing what one could is actually a Herculean task. What if I did what I could each day? The things I could do weren’t big things by the world’s standards. But I could lovingly prepare a healthy meal for my family (as opposed to grumpily throwing Hamburger Helper in the skillet). I could let someone in front of me in Atlanta traffic (now that’s a radical thought!); I could give a friend who doesn’t drive a ride to the drugstore; I could volunteer a few hours a week to walk dogs at the Humane Society; I could make banana bread for a family dealing with a serious illness. The list goes on and on and on. I actually COULD do so many things in my small little postage stamp of the world. Maybe those little things actually count and matter.

I am embarrassed to say that it was actually over a year before I realized where the phrase “She hath done what she could” came from. Yep, it’s from the Gospel of Mark. While Jesus is eating dinner at Simon’s house in Bethany, only a few days before the crucifixion, an unknown, uninvited woman comes in and anoints Jesus with nard. When the disciples fuss at her for wasting money on such an (to their mind) unnecessary luxury. Jesus tells them to hush and leave her alone:

She hath done what she could: she is come aforehand to anoint my body to the burying. Verily I say unto you, Wheresoever this gospel shall be preached throughout the whole world, this also that she hath done shall be spoken of for a memorial of her. (14:8-9, King James Version)

This unknown woman, incredibly bold, incredibly loving, could not stop Jesus’s death or his suffering. But what she could do was honor him and love him. “She hath done what she could.” Mary Josephine…..wow……your memorial kicks butt. Your heart, and your soul, was indeed blessed

“I Told You So!”

For most of my life, I’ve been pretty skeptical of people who say God “talks” to them. I’d roll my eyes, think to myself, “What a whacko! Why would God speak to HIM (or HER) of all the people in the world??!!” And of course God would have shared some secret special knowledge about the world or upcoming events, or maybe God would have come right out and told them something specific they should do, sort of like God was a fortune-teller with a crystal ball. To me, these people were like the worst caricature of a used-car salesman, with greased-back hair, cowboy boots, always telling you what you want to hear. But now I wonder……

A few years ago I had a “breast” issue. I am sure that I shouldn’t be talking about it publicly, so let’s just skip over the details (you’re welcome) and merely say that my doctor referred me to a specialist about an “irregularity” in that area.

Anyone who knows me at all would know that I was a basket case from the time I discovered the “irregularity” to the time of my appointment with the specialist. I began obsessing that I had a rare, mutant form of cancer; I would be bald from the chemo but brave; I would write letters to my young son and videotape myself offering him incredibly sage wisdom; I would give Dave permission to marry again and be happy. (I’m thinking now that I have been dangerously influenced by Lifetime movies of the week).

I apologize if I seem to be making light of a horrible diagnosis. I am certainly not trying to make any type of cancer (or disease) frivolous.  But to survive as me, I have to laugh at myself. I start with a truth and then the chattering monkeys in my brain move at WARP speed like the Starship Enterprise leaving the Klingon galaxy to the absolutely worse possible conclusion.

During those weeks of waiting for my appointment with the specialist, I prayed and begged God that this all would be “nothing.” I didn’t discern an answer; I probably wasn’t listening. But somewhere I had a sense in my gut that all would be well. That, perhaps, was simple reason, looking at the facts, speaking against anxiety that was running wild. But in case you aren’t familiar with anxiety (and if not, I enviously say, lucky you), let me assure you that reason rarely makes any headway and almost never gets the last word.

Finally, Dave and I see the surgeon; he performs a quick, painless test and tells us, “Nothing to worry about.” WHEW! Relief floods over me. After our appointment, I stop in the ladies room. As I am closing the stall door, I “hear” in my heart, my gut, “I told you so.” The voice isn’t unkind. More than anything, I detect humor, maybe a bit of exasperation. And it cracked me up. “What the heck was that?” I wonder, laughing, a bit nervously. Did I make that up? Have I developed a split personality (like Sibyl, yet another tv movie)? Maybe one side of my brain—the rational, more normal side—is talking to the other emotional, anxious, side? I’m sure there’s a logical, scientific explanation.

I know it can’t be God because the voice didn’t sound like James Earl Jones. And besides God wouldn’t speak to ME of all the people in the world. And God certainly wouldn’t stoop so low as to speak to anyone in a bathroom stall, of all places. And I’m sure God wouldn’t tease me about my worry and anxiety. God would say something much more profound. Right?????

The Road Trip

“If God is your co-pilot, He’s in the wrong seat.”
(sign from the Church of Christ, Roswell, GA)

Lately I have been thinking about my life as a road trip. I grew up in the 1960s and 70s and many of our summer vacations were spent in the big Chrysler, mom and dad in the front, me and Lyn in the back, the pop up camper hitched behind us, Dad’s symphonies and operas blaring through the back speakers. Now I imagine traveling on the journey of my life in one of the old station wagons, with the little bench seat in the way back facing the wrong way. I am in the driver’s seat, of course, and the GPS is set for Albuquerque. I’m not 100% sure why we are going to Albuquerque, but that’s where everyone else seems to be heading. Maybe it’s our end destination or maybe it’s just a stop on the way to some other destination. I don’t know but if everyone’s going there, I want to go too. Now that I’ve grown “spiritually,” I imagine Jesus in the passenger seat. He’s a pleasant enough companion, doesn’t say much, but has a killer smile.

In the back are what my friend Judy calls “little me,” in my case “little me’s” (plural)! They are, well, they are not my best qualities; they’re the worst parts of me. After taking Father Ken Swanson’s Spiritual Direction class at St. David’s, I now identify them as my sins: self-absorption; gluttony; sloth; envy; anxiety (the list goes on but that’s enough for now). They can be a pretty rowdy bunch, I’m ashamed to say.

Sometimes, before I even know what’s happening, I look over to realize that one of them is driving the station wagon. It’s usually Gluttony or Sloth and I’m sitting in the passenger seat eating peanut m&m’s out of the 1 pound bag. I don’t know where the heck Jesus is—maybe the way back, or maybe we left him at the last stop. I sigh, take one last m&m, close the bag, put it in the glove box (for emergencies only, of course), and say, “All right, that’s enough. Stop the car.” I point to the way back seat, Gluttony climbs back and I get behind the wheel again and set the GPS for Albuquerque. I look over and Jesus is back in the passenger seat looking out the window.

Lately, however, I look over after who knows how long to see Anxiety driving the station wagon. She is a bad, bad driver, and she makes me carsick. It used to take me a while to realize she was driving, but now I recognize her more quickly, and I yell out, like a crazed dad who’s absolutely had it with the kids, “That’s IT! STOP THIS CAR!” I relegate her to the way, way back, the little seat that looks backwards, and I take the wheel again. Jesus returns to the passenger seat, and we share a look. He’ll raise his eyebrows at me, like he’s thinking, “That took you long enough.” “Hey,” I say, “that’s enough out of you. Where were you anyway? You just disappear when things get tough.” He shakes his head and smiles that smile and goes back to looking out the window. GPS set to Albuquerque. Now we will make some time, I think.

In the last few months, maybe even a year, I’ve started letting Jesus drive a little. I am not sure how this came about. Maybe I am tired of driving and driving and not seeming to get any closer to Albuquerque. All the cars are whizzing past us and I think some are even there already. This is taking a lot longer than I thought. Jesus, though, doesn’t drive like a normal person. First of all, he turns off the GPS, and gets off the interstate. “Where are we going?” I holler. “Are you sure this is the way? This doesn’t look right.” Jesus is a quiet (and perhaps endlessly patient) man. He rarely answers. I settle huffily into the passenger seat, stretch my legs out on the dash, and wait to be proven right.

I have discovered that Jesus loves the back roads. What I hate most about Jesus driving is the pit stops. They are almost always the “mom and pop” stores of the South, but some have friendly faces, homemade fried pies for sale and clean restrooms, and some have mean dogs chained in the yard, scary people with missing teeth behind the cash register, and filthy restrooms “out back.” I do not like those places and I cannot figure out why we stop there. If it’s not an “emergency,” I will not even get out of the car if the place doesn’t look “right.” I prefer the chain restaurants, clean, familiar places, like Chick-Fil-A, friendly faces, milkshakes, and clean restrooms. Is that really too much to ask? Apparently, it is.

When Jesus drives, I can’t tell if we are making any progress to Albuquerque. He isn’t concerned with “making time” or reaching our destination. Today He had the gall to tell me that my life is less about reaching a certain destination and more about the day to day stuff, the day to day responsibilities, some of which I am already doing. And as if that’s not enough, he gave me some ideas for more work, all of which is unpaid, I might add. “What?!!” I said. “Are you crazy??!!” I was really hoping that if I could just make it to Albuquerque, I will find what my mama would have called a “Good Job.” To me that would be finding my life’s vocation, which will conveniently have a decent salary and prestige. “For heaven’s sake, I am 50 years old,” I remind Jesus. “Everyone my age is already there or at least almost there.” I mutter under my breath, “It must be pretty nice there or everyone else wouldn’t be going and talking about it so dang much. People are going to think I’m crazy.” (Just between you and me, sometimes I like it better when Jesus doesn’t talk.)
So now I am facing a dilemma. Do I let Jesus “take the wheel” as Carrie Underwood would say in what is one of my least-favorite country songs? (Don’t remind me that I’m using the same metaphor!) Or do I get back on the interstate and set the GPS for Albuquerque?

I Found Jesus at the Goodwill!

Yesterday I found Jesus at the Goodwill……literally. I was a few minutes early for lunch with my sister and decided to pop in the Goodwill store that was in the same shopping center. I realize that may sound like we weren’t in a “good” part of town, but it’s actually a “very good” part of town, which is why I wanted to scope out the well-to-do’s “rejects.”

I was walking down an aisle filled with “tchotchkes” and there he was, on the top shelf, with arms extended upward (like a toddler when he wants to be picked up): action-figure Jesus, with arms that move and teeny wheels on the very bottom, I guess so he can roll into action and save the world.  Although he made me smile, I walked right past him at first. But I didn’t go far before I turned around and went back. I just couldn’t leave Jesus at the Goodwill, could I? Or maybe, I thought, he’s meant for somebody else. I know Jesus, right? I don’t need another reminder of him, do I? Much less a goofy plastic one.

I looked at Jesus standing among all the broken and dirty discards of our lives, and he looked at me with those arms extended.  I thought, “What the hell! C’mon Jesus.” It was like I was taking a stray dog home.  He cost 77 cents.

When I told my friend Judy about Goodwill Jesus, I confessed that I was still worried that I shouldn’t have brought Jesus home, that maybe he was meant for someone. She said, “Well….you’re someone.” Oh. I am.

So let me see if I got this straight. Jesus is right there at the Goodwill, with all the other “rejects,” imploring and beseeching me with his little action-figure arms extended, and I think he’s not reaching out to me.  I wonder how many other times in my life I have walked right past Jesus, just assuming he’s not there for me, that someone else needs him more.

Now he’s on our kitchen window sill, next to the speckled dog pepper shaker (the salt dog broke), touchdown guy, and the plastic dogs my son bought as gifts for us years ago from the vending machine at the old pizza place. Obviously, a goofy plastic Jesus fits right in here.  Welcome home, action-figure Jesus. Thank you for finding me.

Dancing with Jesus

I wrote a poem! For me, that’s a big deal because I don’t write poetry—AT ALL! At least not since I was 10 or 11 and wrote an ode to the beauty of horses. I know that one doesn’t have to explain “good” poetry, but since it’s not a particularly “good” poem, I think I’ll share a little background. Also, the more I tell you about it, the longer I can put off actually sharing my poem—the thought of which is freaking me out more than a little!

For some reason, this holiday season I’ve been feeling anxious and afraid. Maybe it’s all those anniversaries I wrote about in my last blog; maybe it’s the way I am hard-wired; maybe I am having a mid-life crisis. I don’t know, but I do know that I HATE feeling that way.

I have sometimes felt that being A² (anxious and afraid) separates me from God. I can’t quiet my “monkey mind” and pray like I think I am supposed to (which I guess is meditatively and solemnly).  So one day God showed me that nothing separates us from him. And he made me laugh.

Dance Party with Jesus

Today Jesus danced for me:
The Dougie,
The Kyle Massey,
Spinning on the floor,
Posing, posturing.

“You can’t do that!” I said,
Smiling but shocked
At where this was going.

“I can if I want to!” (Is He mocking me?)
“I am God.”

He takes me by the hands and
Pulls me onto the parquet floor
Where we recreate the silly dances of my childhood—
Dances of exuberance, joy.

Arms entangled,
We spin,
We twirl,
We laugh.

Gravity no longer holds us.
Jesus clasps my hands and
We spin in the blue sky
Like skydivers
Before they pull their ripcords.

I try again: “I’m not sure this is right.”

“I can do it if I want to!” (He is mocking me!)
But His smile is like the sun
And his eyes shine.
“I am God.”

What? Me Blog? (or An Anti-Blogger’s Blog)

Disclaimer: I don’t really like most blogs. Most blogs are well…..a bit dull, focusing on personal trivialities that I don’t care that much about.  It’s not that I’m so high-minded.The truth is that I’m pretty self-absorbed and have a high need for mindless entertainment. Think “Project Runway.” So obviously the question is why the heck am I writing a blog. As self-absorbed as I am, I don’t think I have any grandiose illusions of my importance or brilliance. And I do worry that my blog will be just as dull or as full of the some boring trivialities as any of the others. So why a blog?

The simplest answer is that I am a writer at heart and that it’s time for me to write, especially to write for an audience beyond myself. The longer answer is one that will probably make most people smirk. I believe it is one of the things God is asking me to do. To say that I struggle with discerning God’s will would be an understatement, but I have felt God nudging me, encouraging me, telling me, “Lee, don’t be afraid.” The truth is that I AM afraid. Do I really have something to say? And does what I say matter to anyone? Finally, I came to the realization that I have to be a lot less concerned with what other people think about me and more concerned with being faithful and trusting God.

“Be Bold and Mighty Forces Will Come To Your Aid.” I once saw that on a piece of folk art in a little shop. I couldn’t afford the art but one of my dear friends created a little card with that saying that I now keep on my fridge. I am rarely Bold but in this act of blogging, I am stepping out, well, not boldly, but with baby steps out of my comfort zone.

So far, like all blogs, this has been all about me, so now I’ll speak (boldly) to you. My goal is to write of my experiences in a life of faithfulness (or perhaps it’s a life full of struggles with faithfulness) to God. My hope is that my stories will resonate and in a way be your stories. And I hope to begin conversations about our faith, grace, and beliefs in our daily lives.  I want to create a space where we can tell the truth about our lives in faith. It’s a place for questions and for understanding. All are welcome, regardless of your beliefs or lack thereof.

I hope my blog will address, in part, how what we believe (or what we say we believe) plays a role in our families, at work, with friends.  Can we recognize God’s actions in the mundane trivialities of our lives? When we can see God’s hand at work as we sit in traffic; make dinner; change a diaper; write a proposal; sit in yet another meeting—maybe when we can realize God’s presence even in those moments, we learn more about ourselves and God’s hope for us.