We have a house in our neighborhood that I call the copycat house. We painted our house yellow, they painted their house yellow. We have a white picket fence, they put up a white picket fence. We painted our front door red, they painted their front door red. Imitation might be the sincerest form of flattery, but I was forced to admit, “They do everything we do, only better.” We should’ve put up a sign that read: Come to us for ideas. You’ll make them look better than we ever could!

Now I’m finding myself admitting that little truth again. I’ve cruised over other authors’ websites lately. Let’s refer to them as raging successes, or RS for short: people who have accomplished far more than I could ever hope for, whose names others instantly recognize when they hear them, who seem approachable and authentic and amazing all at the same time. They are also prettier, younger, and thinner, but I digress. They do what I did (and more!), only better.

Those caviar book launch parties where the RS autographed until their fingers grew numb? I’ve never tasted caviar, and I take this opportunity to apologize to my first autograph receivers whose books appear to have a sweet little note that looks like it could’ve been written by their Aunt Edna who gave them the book for high school graduation.

The RS probably began their second project immediately post-launch, pounding out chapter one in a two day span. Me? Oh I have a next project, yet it is no exaggeration to say that I break out into a sweat when I even think of downloading a program to convert some musicals to pdf so they can be used by a publisher. I made myself access aforementioned site today, began reading it and – I am not kidding you – shed my sweater on this rainy day and finally fled the room in distress. Oh computer, there is no love lost between us.

However, here are some samples of my first few weeks of being a published author. I am not among the RS, but I am very, very fortunate. You see, my book was launched very near the time when a musical I wrote entitled Just One was being performed by a wonderful cast who not only gave 110% to the project, but also gave me some lovely flowers. I wish they would stay as breathtakingly beautiful as they were when I received them.

The Just One cast also gave me some really great, fun and funny memories. Memories are just as beautiful as the bouquets and less likely to fade.

They say the effectiveness of a book is as much or more of what you take out than what you leave in, so I will be brief in my descriptions of the very nice experience of having a first book published.

Seeing my book up on the Amazon website for the first time. Here’s a word: surreal.

Giving my parents a copy of my book, pointing out the dedication, and being at a loss for words due to unexpected tears from both giver and recipient. Touching.

Having my mother question my worldliness as well as her pointing out that the characters seem to eat a lot. Typical! (I note here that this picture is from our celebration lunch where we actually did eat. A lot.)

Having my husband assure me that it doesn’t start out slow as some of the reviews have claimed. Kind. (This, from someone who loves dusty history books, so let’s just admit there’s some question about the source of this reassurance.)

Watching my daughter read a book with my name on the front. Priceless.

Bad things begin with good intentions. Anyone who’s tried to replicate something from Pinterest can attest to that. There are more important things than food or crafts, though, that bear out this truth. Some things start out good and go bad, and some things don’t even start out good; they are a result of good intentions, but short-sighted and disastrous.

The feminist movement shared its early days with some very good things that were done by women such as Lucy Stone and Susan B. Anthony. They both championed the abolitionist movement, the right for women to own property, retain their own earnings, and vote. Ms. Anthony, a Quaker, believed drinking alcohol was sinful and supported the temperance movement. It probably began prior to the 1960’s, but that decade was the one that took a good thing down a different road. Suddenly women’s rights to own property and vote became women’s rights to terminate their pregnancies, or to use more honest language, to kill their unborn babies. A good intention, and I assert a good movement, went very, very wrong.

The Affordable Care Act, aka Obamacare, had at its core good intentions of helping people without insurance get it like others who had jobs that provided it as part of their wages, what many refer to as a job benefit. At least most people who supported it had good intentions. Some people have benefited from this government intervention into healthcare. However, much more was lost than gained, which is why a majority acknowledge it was bad from the beginning. Another result has been many hard-working folks who have lost the doctors they preferred because provider access changed, the same hard-working folks who have experienced decreased income due to higher insurance premiums, companies that have closed down under the burden of regulation, and lost jobs for the people who worked at those companies. Is it possible that due to the burden of requirements from this well-intentioned idea, the quality of the healthcare in a nation known for its high standards and impressive treatment discoveries will decrease? Yes.

I truly believe most people have good intentions. They want to help. Helping, however, requires a look not just at the present moment, but also a look at the future results of what we do in the present moment.

When I’ve visited the south and seen a confederate flag or symbol, I’ve thought it a bit quirky and, frankly, out of touch. I’ve thought, “It’s time to let go of the war, people. You lost it in 1865, so that means we are one nation, not two. 150 years is too long to pout.” I still don’t understand it, and I’m willing to wager that many of the folks who display those flags haven’t put a lot of their own thinking into it either. The problem with saying, then demanding that something like this be taken down or destroyed is that it tramples on their freedom. It tramples on something else, too: Our nation’s history.

The surest path to destruction of a camp or college or country is to remove its history. The older ones might remember it, but like all things unreviewed those memories will fade. The younger ones will never learn it. That’s happening now in our public schools and in the town square. After the Civil War flags are removed, there will be demands for historical monuments to be removed. Oh, not all of them. Not at first and maybe not all of them ever. But enough of them to change the citizenry’s understanding of history. To erase it. To replace it with another image or narrative.

I am looking down our nation’s road. The change of narrative is, in fact, close enough that I see it in the distance. Or maybe not even much of a distance at all.

Carl F. H. Henry, author of Twilight of a Great Civilization, says, “There is a new barbarism . . . not simply rejecting the legacy of the West, but embracing a new pagan mentality where there is no fixed truth.”

Et tu, Brute?

Photo:800px-Mountain_Road_in_Corfu-wikimediacommons.org_.jpg, creative commons attribution share alike-3.0 unported; Quote: Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

It’s hard letting go. We’ve all had practice from childhood forward. There’s the letting go of relationships, letting go of expectations, letting go of children, __________________ (name of things you have already or need to let go here). An aside: those of you who put control in that blank might need a little more chocolate than the rest of the population. I’m just sayin’.

I’ve surprised myself with the children thing. Sure, there are some tears when the kids go to college, and I’m not one of those parents that leaps for joy when they walk out the door. I really miss them. But they have lives to live and I want them to live those lives without my getting in the way. At least trying to not get in the way. Depending on who you talk to.

Having to say a final good-bye to a family member too soon or even right on time is pretty hard to take. Death, however, doesn’t give us a choice about letting go.

And then there are the good-byes that come with life decisions. Those times of loosening our grip are not like death or sending kids into adulthood. There’s a pain but there’s also a benefit, and we choose which pain and benefit to take.

Do you pursue that career you set your heart on or do you let it go to spend family time that somewhere in the back of your mind you know will be limited? Do you let go of money and, frankly, some stability in favor of dreams or vice versa? Do you swallow an argument in favor of peace, or do you speak up when you’d rather keep quiet – letting go of your personal peace and space – for the sake of truth? Do you EAT THE CHEESCAKE?

This summer I am learning another kind of letting go. You know, it’s funny. I really enjoyed writing my first book (it will launch in a little over a month), letting my imagination take wing. You know how it is. You’re in your own little world working on whatever it is you love. Then someone says, “Yes, let’s share this”, and it makes you pause. Oh sure, it’s jumping up and down exciting, but thinking about other people reading what I’ve written is also a bit daunting. After I signed the contract, I started worrying about my grammar on Facebook posts. Things like that. What if someone thinks I’m talking about them in my book – which I AM NOT! What if someone disagrees with what I say in my book? What if they write angry emails or call me and tell me I’m wrong? I’ve actually had that happen a couple of times in response to a letter to the editor. (What I learned from those experiences is that the ones who like what you wrote write, the ones who don’t like what you wrote, call.) What if they simply think it’s the worst book they’ve ever read?

I just finished running through some of the publisher’s edits. I had a Ladies Retreat I was still preparing for when I got them, so I essentially pounded through 280 pages in three days. Three times. It was very hard to press send and give it back to the publisher. There were, I am sure, some other words or phrases or pages that could have been better. (Should have been better!) There were things overlooked, I am sure of it. But keeping it on my side of the “track changes” wasn’t going to do anyone any good at this point. I had to let it go.

That’s what we do, I guess. We let go. It’s tough and upsetting and scary.

And then we fly.Available for pre-order now.                                                          http://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Covingtons-Sunday-School-Dropouts/dp/1938708679

First of all, I apologize to the driver of the burnt orange car the color of the Boston Baked Beans candy I like so well. My leisurely speed of 72 mph down Highway 10 near the Soo Line Trail was clearly too slow. I wish you clear roads in the summer, iceless roads in the winter, and short jail time when you cause an accident.

Secondly, to the engineers who erected the cement divider nearly as high as my window and to the astute highway department who posted the sign “vision may be limited” on the curve out of Elk River: What were you thinking??

Third, to the person whose distraction nearly caused them to take the left fork to Duluth rather than to Minneapolis, I say, “Keep your head in the game. You’re in the city. There’s actually traffic here and it’s fast.” Oh wait. Never mind. That was me.

And that was just the trip home. I was away briefly to a dear spot. Said spot’s water hadn’t been turned on for the summer yet. The electricity was, though, for which I was grateful; having worn what amounted to a miner’s helmet a few nights last year during some work which required it be shut off. It was fine, perhaps a bit quiet. It was not quiet when those near and dear to us discovered our plight and laughed rather more heartily than necessary as far as I was concerned. But I digress.

My brother knows all things house-related and I, well I can paint if it’s not in an important area. He was down the road in his own cabin, but he was very busy. I would turn on the water myself. I had done it before with him on the other end of the phone line coaching me, and had written it all down. There was around an hour of daylight left, and I felt only slightly hurried. I pried up the part of the floor reserved for such descent as I was about to make, lowered myself through it to the cold dirt underneath and with the lantern in one hand, crawled on my stomach in great GI Joe form if I do say so myself to turn the levers under the sink. They had already been turned. Out I crawled again, pushing from my imagination thoughts of small, furry, scampering things and slithering … okay I can’t even finish writing this. You get the idea.

I went to the sinks to turn the knobs all the way on to let out the air. They were already turned to on. I checked the list, and moved to unscrew the aerators on each faucet. They were already off. It was at this point I astutely realized someone had been here before me and already done these things. All that was left was to drain the hot water tank, put in the filters and put the pink stuff around them so they wouldn’t leak. I didn’t see any filters nor the pink stuff. So you know what this independent woman did, don’t you? That’s right. She texted her brother who came over and confirmed there were no filters and that it was too late to buy them.

It’s not so bad to be without water. We didn’t have running water there all during my formative years. The outhouse hasn’t moved anywhere. I did notice there was a dead mouse in the anti-freeze in the toilet. I respectfully closed the lid. I would give him privacy to lie in state.

I closed the doors to the bedrooms to preserve what heat I could through the night, lit a fire in the fireplace, watched one of the last nights of David Letterman, and slept on the couch.

Why, you ask? Why even leave the comfort and peace of my home for such a drive for such an overnight?

This.

Even this.

And for peace of mind and reflection, this.

Because, after all, some things are worth the trouble.

Photo: pexels; Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eyU3bRy2x44

Last week someone asked me if we had a curfew for our children. I don’t usually think in terms of curfews; I think in terms of “when do you think you’ll be home?” kinds of questions to which I then occasionally provide the person with whom I am conversing an answer that might satisfy us both. Sometimes. I do, however, know how to text.

I learned how to text when my brother was going through colon cancer and everything else that went with it at the time. He was a pro; I, a novice. I can still see myself trying to text “Hallelujah” to him in response to some good news. I couldn’t get past the auto-correct or spelling help or whatever it is that kept my message at “Hipps”. This particular message came as I was waiting for a moms’ prayer group to start, and none of the other women there was any help at all. To acknowledge that I was the most tech savvy among them at the time is really saying something, though the entire group would rather not acknowledge what.

Texting has now become a way of life for me in communicating with people under, oh let’s just say 30. I’m not sure how great it is for kids to have parents able to communicate any time of the day or night. Phone calls, at least, have a built-in limit in that unwritten rules suggest a ringing phone during some hours isn’t the best idea. Ditto multiple phone calls in a row.

My youngest is probably the most affected by my new skill. In fact, I’ve gotten a little lackadaisical with it to the point that now, if he is without a vehicle from our vast collection of cars (often), and I’ve driven to wherever he needs to be picked up, I just hit some buttons to let him know I’ve arrived. Instead of “here”, he gets messages like “cabbage”, “common”, “gig”, or the like thanks to the phone making assumptions from a few taps on the same key.

However, I am grateful for a way to kindly suggest that it is getting rather late for him to be out. Here is an exchange from earlier this year:

Me: “Tell me where you are or I will find it necessary to take the red velvet brownies hostage.”

Son: “Ohhh nnno!! We are heading back home”

M: “Too late. I’ve already cut off one of its fingers.”

S: “Okay..that is mean! Leave the brownies alone!!”

M: “You weren’t here to protect and defend. One is whimpering quietly in the corner.”

and so on and so forth.

Texting isn’t only for kids, perverts, and politicians, you know. And you thought you needed to set a curfew.

I’m rambling tonight. Indulge me.

God’s kindness is beyond what we ask or imagine. We ask for some small thing that we think we need or want and He gives us that and something better besides. We ask for help and we find it in surprising places. We ask for healing and are provided with healing of all kinds, some of which we don’t understand.

We learn this when we are small and in our innocence ask for something which might amuse an adult, but to which our God bends His ear and listens with understanding. Years pass, our requests continue, varying with age and spiritual maturity and the winds of life.

Do we notice how often this happens? Or do we fret, ask, and forget when the answer blesses our path?

We learn that wherever we are and whoever we become, sometimes good, sometimes bad, our Creator is there. He’s there.

There’s a lot we see in this world, whether looking through a telescope into the heavens or peering through a microscope at a tiny cell, that we don’t understand. Some of us have an amazing capacity for remembering facts and drawing conclusions, or are gifted with an intuitive understanding of parts of nature or of people, or possess a spiritual sensitivity to see or hear or think things others just don’t. But it all pales in comparison to a Creator so astoundingly intelligent and brave and creative and faithful and loving we just don’t really get it. We just can’t. And into our weak understanding, He answers our requests with such kindness, such gentle loving, such goodness, all we can do is be amazed. And grateful.

I will never leave you nor forsake you.

Photo: ©-Copyright-Martin-Speck-and-licensed-for-reuse-under-this-Creative-Commons-Licence.jpg; Quote: Hebrews 13:5

We are all paradoxical. You might be as fit as a fiddle, but have a weakness for potato chips. Your neighbor might be rather aloof, but become a blithering cartoon character when she has a kitten on her lap.

I am a short, aging woman who teaches Sunday School and sings soprano, but has an unsettling interest in spy novels. This isn’t a new thing for me. When I was in the early grades, my mother says she forbade me to read any more Nancy Drew since I was afraid of the dark. First of all, how can anyone object to someone who wears a skirt with matching pumps and solves crime? Secondly, a fear of the dark (or, more accurately, what it is in the dark that you can’t see) is very reasonable and I contend that those of you who don’t feel a little tinge of “did I hear a noise?” when you can’t see your hand in front of your face are the ones with issues. Very dark issues. Lastly, this is the same woman who taught her children “Fee, fi, fo, fum; I smell the blood of an Englishman; Be he alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make my bread” with great expression and gusto; so maybe we should investigate whether the blame lies completely on Nancy’s doorstep.

My husband and son recently decided to get me a gift. There are just the three of us at home now, and life is decidedly different when testosterone outnumbers estrogen. Well, actually, there are sometimes four if you count my son’s friend who is living with us part-time in order to take some college classes his last year of high school. My husband and I didn’t really know him when he moved in, but he’s an Eagle Scout, so if he was actually a mass murderer, I reasoned he would at least kill us it quickly and efficiently. (Okay, maybe spy novels do creep into my thinking from time to time.) I am really quite comfortable in a house of boys. Perhaps it is a reflection of my childhood in which the only other female besides me in a family of seven was my mother.

I was grateful for this gift – turning it over in my hands. They looked at me with a sort of amazement (the word here not necessarily denoting something positive) as they described choosing from the titles of a favorite author of mine. Should we get Kill Shot or American Assassin for Mom and on and on. Oh for pete’s sake. It’s just fiction. Maybe. Thanks for the gift, boys. I’ve got your back.

Quote: Jack and the Beanstalk; image: commons.wikimedia.org, CC lic 3.0

We walk into a wonderland of comfort and community, of support of art in all of its forms, of a sense of welcome to all. Well, almost all. The space is comfort with a capital C. Well-used couches and chairs interspersed with small, high, round tables and chairs fill the room, and in its center is a backless swivel stool. A large cross hangs at the front, surrounded by art from, I am guessing, church members. An enormous paper mache duck (or is it a goose?) is suspended above us.

Now this is a church. None of that stuffy, organized programming for us! In fact, the programming is all about the church members. Members write songs, songs about peace and finding my way, and perform them in place of congregational singing. There are readings via power point, and whoever cares to read it aloud does so for the rest of us. Only once do two people start reading at the same time and one quickly stops so the other can continue solo.

Communion is really communal. After an explanation that Jesus died for us, the first mention I’ve heard of Him so far, round loaves and pitchers of grape juice or wine are available to whoever goes and takes some. There’s a gluten-free option. People chat freely. Some little kids run around, snacking on their bread. It’s a little noisy, as is the rest of the service. Someone shares a testimony about his art work. Someone reads a poem. An attractive young woman reads a few announcements, one about a trip to South America to build a brick home for a family, a summer project these dear folk have been doing for many years, also an art show. People trying to help others and encouraged to express themselves creatively – that’s a good thing.

What’s not to love?

What’s not to love?

The minister takes his place on the stool. He invites whoever in the congregation will to read the scripture on power point. There is no printed reference, and someone asks where it’s found. He replies it is from Luke. It is, in fact, Luke recounting the time when a centurion sends Jewish elders, friends of his, to ask Jesus to heal his servant. The elders tell Jesus of this man’s love for their nation and his help in building a synagogue. When Jesus begins to go to his house, he sends other friends to say he doesn’t feel worthy for Jesus to be under his roof and, being a man in authority, he knows that Jesus doesn’t need to come to his house at all. All Jesus has to do is say the word and he knows his servant will be healed. Jesus remarks to those around him about the greatness of this man’s faith and the friends return to find the servant healed.

Please think for a minute. Don’t think about what you’ve been taught if, in fact, you have been taught about scripture. What do you take away from this encounter noted in Luke? I’ll tell you what. I’m impressed with the centurion’s faith. I’m amazed at the power of Jesus to heal someone who’s not even in the same town. I’m glad this man gave his own money to help build the synagogue and that there was such a love between him and his friends, both Jewish and Gentile, that they went to Jesus on his behalf. What say you?

The following is the minister’s take away: he noted that Jews were instructed to not associate with Gentiles and went into some detail about that. His message was about the dividing lines of people then and now. People were invited to contribute to the conversation, which was about division, I guess. The discussion centered mostly around the centurion and divisions today. Okay. I get it. This isn’t really a church for Jesus. He wasn’t invited and no one talked to him even once during the ninety minute service. This is a church designed to push a tired and well-worn viewpoint of “them” and “us”, of victimhood, and what is now an established anti. I would say anti-establishment, but it’s so much more. It’s anti-scriptural authority. It’s anti-Jesus’ teaching if what he says condemns someone or something. It is a church that wants to use the name of Jesus for their own purposes, not His. I wanted very badly to get up and join in the free flowing service by playing “My Jesus, I Love Thee” on the  piano and singing along. It wouldn’t have fit in. He wasn’t there.

photo: en.wikipedia.org, Scripture reference: Luke 7:2-10