An unexpected room

I wish I'd had my camera the day we happened upon this tree.  When I returned to the spot for a picture, the sun was shining, muting the effects.  On the day we discovered it, the sky was overcast and grey, the street slick and dark.  Turning my eyes toward the tree, I was flooded with color.  The contrast between the grey and the bright warm leaves was striking. We walked under the tree, which still had leaves in it.  The red fully encircled us as if we'd entered a plush, red room.  It was magical.  I never knew the power color has on our senses.

Christian Fiction Revisited

It’s officially Autumn. The nights are cold. In the morning my breath comes in cloudy puffs as I start the car - and don’t get me started about the pine needles the kids and dogs track into the house! This time of year drives me indoors, looking for a sweater and good book to snuggle with. But, I have a confession to make - I love a good story, am a Christian, yet have never been drawn to Christian literature.

Why the reluctance toward Christian books? I’ve read a few but they seemed poor copies of what’s already on the secular shelves. They were Pollyanna replicas of what this age is already offering. I wasn’t interested in something taken from the world, scrubbed clean, tied up with a bow and called “Christian”. It didn’t ring true for me.

So I perused the secular shelves instead, knowing there are good stories to be found. The trouble was finding them. For every two or three books I finished, I laid down one, partially—completed story, for which I had no stomach. Then I traipsed off to the library once again asking questions I’d wearied of – “Can you recommend a book? Is it clean? Is it a nice book, well written?”

Sometimes the questions were met with a blank look, other times the hint of a smirk, but always I felt like someone who had shot an arrow that completely missed the mark. Despite this, I continued on, sometimes enjoying a good book, other times being frustrated and laying it aside. At times I would get pulled into a compelling story, which would have been better left unread. At those times, once I completed the book, I emerged dull toward the Lord for days afterward.

In the midst of this quandary, I revisited the Christian bookstore and was surprised by what happened. The book I chose was a basic story, simply written (and honestly not so engaging) but the character’s journey impressed me. The protagonist was a believer, and the story was about some struggles he passed through. What struck me most was how the character grappled with his difficulties and how much he was like me. As troubles presented themselves he prayed, repented and experienced God’s grace. By the end of the story this character changed, having gained something more of his Savior. Even in the midst of a story short on suspense and character development, I began to wonder if I’d given Christian literature a bad rap.

Christian literature has the capacity to offer hope, in a way its secular cousin can’t. Now, I enjoy well-written secular literature with stories that have hopeful messages, but the Christian’s hope is something different. It’s a hope that can get inside you and work. Regular fiction can uplift and encourage but it can never offer this element. Christian literature dispenses grace, telling the story of a human journey with the weaving in of something divine. It’s the journey we Christians walk, that of moving through life not alone but with God. Although the main character’s experiences may be the same as an unbeliever’s - with happy times, successes, as well as failures and hurts – it’s how the character meets these events and the final outcome of the story that make all the difference.  

How does a Christian protagonist handle success? Perhaps there is praise, or a struggle with pride. Maybe after a series of events there’s a moment of epiphany where light shines, and in the light there’s a transforming touch, or seeing of God, akin to Job’s experience. And isn’t that the Christian story? It is who we are, what we struggle with, all wrapped together with prayer, seeking, the shining of God and a joy that carries us through. The reader of Christian fiction can enter into this experience vicariously, and a longing for more is stirred. This can open and touch readers at any stage of their spiritual walk: an unbeliever can be brought to salvation; a discouraged Christian encouraged; a hungry believer led to a higher plane.

So the truth of it is Christian fiction can be good. Why not? It can be well-written, as well-written as any depressing novel I waded through in English lit, but a book doesn’t have to be depressing to be good. Life does have its ups and downs as any good story will, but Christian fiction can offer much more than an intriguing story line. It presents a character walking through circumstances, dull and exciting, good and bad while vicariously bringing the reader into a way of living, a way where Christ is woven into the soul. And the good news is the ending is happy, if not now, at least eventually. And there you have what I may not like to admit; I do have a Pollyanna side after all. I love a happy ending and an uplifting story. But even more, I love a story that ministers life and grace, hope and encouragement – in the Lord. Christian literature has the potential to deliver that in a compelling, well-written story that touches the depths of a human heart.

Seattle's Spring Tease

Does anyone appreciate the sunshine more than those of us living in the land of slow rain and gloomy skies? I’m a dyed in the wool Seattle girl. I’ve been here since I was small with a few short stints in other states. I love the rain and the green. All winter I slosh around in my rubber boots with fuzzy liners and keep an umbrella in every car. Caught defenseless in the rain? Not me. Wherever I go, so does my umbrella (or at least one I can borrow). A while ago I spent some time in southern California and found the constant sunshine relentless and oppressive. On the rare occasion when it rained, I would run out to take a walk, pushing past all the other people ducking inside for cover.

But, these last few years I’ve surprised myself. It was just about this time last spring I remember thinking I could live somewhere else. I can really see myself living in a sunnier state. As much as I love the climate in the Northwest, I have a saturation point. After a long rainy fall and winter, when springtime rolls around, I’m ready for warm weather. But, springtime in Seattle can be something of a tease with a nice day to get our hopes up and then weeks of wet, grey and cold.

Already it’s mid May and our heater's still chugging away. Out back I finally emptied the round saucers under my potted plants because they were overflowing with rainwater about to slosh onto the deck. A couple nights after that I found myself at a dinner party in a conversation about skiing at Crystal Mountain; it’s still open.  In fact, they just had another inch of snow. Snow in May? Apparently so.

It was under these conditions I had a bit of a meltdown. I’d just dropped the kids off at school and was on my way home. There, in front of me, was this beautiful old tree I pass twice a day. I reached for my camera and remembered my mother. She used to take pictures of all the flowers in the yard and I’d think How random is that? Why doesn’t she just go out on the porch and look at them? But there I was pulling to the side of the road, camera in hand. Maybe it was the sun that had finally broken through the morning fog. Yes, the sun was shining in Seattle. Maybe it was because yesterday it rained so hard I could hardly get out and walk the dogs.  So, I climbed out of the car, walked down the road a bit and started taking pictures. Never mind the dog in the yard barking his warning at me, or any of the passing cars. I took a moment and captured the majestic old tree. Further down the way I noticed many of my favorite bushes had finally burst out and I had to restrain myself from dancing over to them.  Instead, I started clicking.


For contrast, I also took some typical soggy Seattle shots. I found the sign post that's nearly obscured by moss, and the patch of green at the end of our drive that is only twenty percent actual grass. Then there was the neighbor’s split rail fence with a spongy green carpet growing on it. It was more than I could get in one journey and I’m still thinking about the perky cluster of mushrooms in the roadside planter by the freeway on ramp.

Despite it all I’m happy living here. I’m thankful we’re not dealing with tsunamis and tornados and glad our house is on a hill, away from overflowing rivers. While the weather is teasing us with one nice day followed by weeks of cold and rain, endurance runs low. When it’s May and we’re wondering whether to bring gloves or just a hat when heading out the door, our stamina takes a dive. But, then the sun shines and the forecast says four days of sun and seventy degrees on Friday and we perk up. Our pale faces cry out with a collective whoop - Spring is here!  Summer’s around the corner and we live in the most beautiful place! As I glance around, everything promises good to come and people are emerging from the muck with blinking eyes.

Maybe my snapshots of the budding and blossoming trees are my way of participating in that collective shout and maybe, just maybe, all that beautiful green the rain brings us and the scarcity of clear skies the rest of the year makes us just a little more appreciative when the sun finally does make an appearance. Since this is the second year in a row these thoughts of moving have flitted through my mind, I’m beginning to view them as a seasonal right, not just peculiar to me but to springtime in Seattle.

Longing for Summer and My Straw Hat

This is a piece I dug out of my old college folder.  Suffice it to say, I wrote it in the early nineties, long before blogging.

I have this big wide brimmed straw hat I bought to shade my face from the sun.  It has small holes in a decorative pattern which allow me a view of the world when I place the hat over my face to take a snooze.  Lying on my large blanket with the grass tickling my feet, I'm reminded of a game I played as a child. I would place a blanket over any two raised objects to form a tent.  Branches, chairs, even our old playpen, anything would do, as long as they weren't too far apart. If they were too far apart, the blanket wouldn't fit and my secret hiding place would be exposed.  If the blanket fit, I had a uniquely safe view of the world, hidden in my homemade tent.  Under my floppy hat I have a similar sensation.  My body can be seen by passersby, yet with my face covered I am also invisible.  People drop their public faces and I peer into a more intimiate world than strangers would knowingly allow.

As I lie on my stomach, head turned to the side, I can see a dotted version of my bright orange ten-speed bike.  The same bike that has toured Kirkland, Mercer Island, Renton, Seattle, been to the waterfront, and back and forth to school numerous times, rests, temporarily moitionless, waiting for a new adventure. In the background of my bike is a stack of wood, half the size it was when we bought it last summer. The small splintered pieces and those evenly cut, are all reminders of my first attempts at chopping wood.  On top of the pile a sole spider passes the day setting up house, in hopes of an evening meal. Her possibilities are numerous with all sorts of creatures buzzing around, yet her livelihood is dependent upon her sticky web.  As if to pay tribute to their numbers, a couple of ants scurry across my leg while on a nearby blade of grass, a ladybug alights.

Peacefully, I take a deep breath and inhale the scent of the straw hat shading my face.  I'm carried back to Easter, four years ago, on Waikiki beach, and the smell of our new straw beach mats.  The feel of the warm summer sun prolongs my nostalgia as I imagine cool blue waves smoothing the sandy shore of that particular tropical day. 

I am brought back to my surroundings by a plane flying low overhead, drowning the continuous chirps, clicks and whistles of an early summer day.  I marvel at the miracle of life in such small forms, as I watch a robin tiptoe across the lawn, frequently stopping to cock its head, and listen for worms.  Does this creature think and feel, or is its life a set of innate routines; perhaps it is more aware of itself than many people believe.  As the jet passes and a quiet rumble dies away, the cheerful songs start up again, seeming louder than before. 

Next door, a periodic bark escapes from the small dog pen.  The coarse fur sheds from the panting dogs, and softly dances around their paws on the shaded cement floor. As the barking subsides and my body becomes warm, my eyelids grow heavy and my world gives way to a deep quiet. I glide into a peaceful sleep, from beneath my straw hat, and for the time being everything is still.

Trying out his tough shoes

I have the worry, privilege and joy of day by day watching a boy becoming a man. In the home I grew up in there were only girls. We had dance, gymnastics, candles, flowers and perfumes, but from my first year of high school on, it was only girls. I never thought about it then, but when the ultrasound confirmed that my husband and I were having a boy, I realized there had been a void of sorts. Now, bit by bit and year by year I am growing into the idea of raising a boy. I say "growing into the idea" because I keep discovering new territory, new puzzles and new challenges outside the world I've previously known. Despite what some believe, I have to say, boys are different. Of course I can't judge all boys by mine, but all the same he is my peek into this interesting and sometimes challenging world.

Last Saturday I found myself shouting on the sidelines of the artificial turf of the lacrosse field. It was drizzling on and off and I had permanently ditched the idea of bringing a folding chair, knowing quite well I was incapable of sitting down. If I wasn't pacing, I was shouting. I've discovered sitting and shouting don't exist together for me. I love to shout and encourage the boys. I love knowing their names and calling out praise, advise or encouragement, whatever the moment calls for. Then my son was on the field. He's one of four kids still in the fourth grade doing something called "playing up". Eighty pounds of little boy out there with a stick and shoulder pads and boys twice his size knocking each other for all they're worth. He took his hits. He was laid out flat and got back up. Then in the fourth quarter he was crushed by two very big kids, one on either side. The blow seemed stronger than the others and next thing I knew, he was motionless on the ground. I unconsciously pulled a hangnail on my thumb with "get him!", "shake it off", "poke his stick!" stuck in my throat. Those words were wedged somewhere between my heart and my mouth as I stifled the impulse to run to his side.

I thought of the little boy who comes home complaining "my heel hurts", or calls out at night when I turn out the light "I'm scared, Mom!" I will never forget the time he turned green, rolled his eyes up in his head and went clunk on the tile floor after a vaccine. Now, here he was, knocked to the ground, not moving. I sucked on my thumb that had started to bleed. As I anxiously waited, he stood up and as he rose, something inside him rose too. At the time I thought he was angry, but he later told me "no". He got back in the fray, leaned into the other team and went for the ball like some starving animal who'd just found a fresh fish. He ran faster than he had all game. He hit harder than ever. Then he fired his shot, missed, and charged back into the fray of scuffling boys punching sticks at a ball.

At the end of the game, I went over to give him some water. His reddish blond hair was standing up in places and his cheeks were bright and pink. He was dressed in his white and green uniform and the smile on his face was wide and lasting. He held up his helmet and said "Look, Mom, I got my first sticker!" At the end of the game, the two teams choose someone to honor from the other team and they give them a sticker of recognition to wear on their helmet. He had a small black sticker triumphantly attached to the back of his. I took his picture with my phone and sent it off to Dad. My son looked at me and said "I love lacrosse. I love being hit. I love hitting. Can we stay and watch the next game?" A little stunned, I said "Sure, for a while."

Who is this strange creature I love? He loves being hit? He loves hitting? He wants more? Okay, I think I get it a little bit. This is my "boy becoming a man". I know there are lots of elements to growing up and growing into manhood, but I suspect there's something here that translates and that my son isn't the only one learning to wear his tough shoes.