Interrupted

Apparently, Jesus was interrupted a lot during His ministry. He’d try to take His disciples off to rest, and a crowd would come running after. They talked while He prayed and woke Him up when He slept. The Pharisees threw an adulteress in front of Him while He was preaching. Imagine if that happened today! A man coming down through the ceiling cut in on a sermon. A woman with an incurable disease cut in on a healing mission. A blind man with a really loud voice sitting by the side of the road cut in on a walk. They yelled His name, they mobbed Him, they burst into tears, they dumped perfume on His feet. In the synagogue, on the mountainside, in boats, in houses, on the street. Nowhere was safe. And what does Jesus do? Does He get annoyed, short-tempered, curt, upset? Does He say, “Sorry, I’m busy,” and go back to His real work?

No.

In fact, reading the stories, you get the idea that the interruptions were His real work. You see a Jesus who faces head-on every new face that pops up in front of Him, never pushing them aside to follow a plan. Why? How did Jesus manage not to lose His temper? Why did He treat interruptions not like burdens but like opportunities?

Because they were people. Jesus had a job to do, and that job was people. Not carpentry, not fishing, not money, not even synagogues. It wasn’t a vocation, it wasn’t a schedule, it wasn’t a sermon. His purpose was people. Plain and simple. And when they came His way, He saw them for what they were. Not interruptions, not irritations, but empty vessels with the potential of being filled with the love of God. He was never too busy to be interrupted because those very interruptions were His business. What about me?

The Gingerbread Project

It was going to be amazing. Just like the jewelry beads, the scarecrow family, and the Oreo turkeys, only Christmas oriented instead. I had the frosting out, the pre-shaped pieces for the little gingerbread houses, the gumdrops for the windows - everything! We just had to cut them out and put them together. And decorate them, of course.

So I started asking around. Gingerbread house, anyone? “Sure . . . maybe. After I do my homework. I’ve got a lot of homework tonight.” “Um, can I talk to my mom first online?” “Well, maybe later. I was kinda thinking I might take a nap.” Student after student listened, smiled, and declined. In fact, the only one who was enthusiastic was McKenzie, and she’s seven.

I walked into the computer room after a round of useless asking and found a fair number of them, staring at their computer screens, oblivious to the world.

That’s when it hit me.

These girls didn’t care about sitting down and doing something with me. It’s not that they don’t like me. They simply weren’t interested. There were two and a half hours between school getting out and the dinner bell ringing, and they wanted to spend that time the way they chose. Which meant sitting in front of the computer. Alone. There was no time for spending quality time with me. It wasn’t about getting to know each other better. Having good talks. Creating memories. They’d actually prefer to stare at the computer for a couple hours, thank you very much.

I wonder if we do the same thing to God.

There He is, sitting at the kitchen table with the gingerbread and gumdrops spread out before Him. Waiting for us to walk through the door and spend some quality time with Him. Have a good talk. Create a memory. Instead, we get on the Internet. Or flip on the television. Or take a nap. It’s not that we don’t like Him. We’re just not interested.

Twilight vs. Christianity

I heard the general plot line of the Twilight series for the first time today. A Christian teenage girl told me. It didn’t leave me shocked. There’s not much they write about now that hasn’t been written about before. What it did do is make me think a little bit.

Why is our Christian teen/young adult culture wrapped up in these stories just as much as the world? Why would they sooner sit down and read a chapter of Eclipse than a chapter out of Job? Why are they more entranced with the narration of Hollywood than the narration of the Man from Galilee? Why will they wait till the movie’s over before rushing to the bathroom when they can hardly keep their eyes open during church?

For that matter, why will we?

What is it that’s got a hold of our hearts?

We’ve lost the practice of guarding ourselves. We don’t guard our eyes; we don’t guard our ears; we don’t guard our stomachs. The only thing we do a decent job of guarding is our pocket books, but even that’s out on Black Friday. We’ve forgotten how to guard our hearts.

“Guard your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.” So, you lose your heart, you lose life. The scent of the winter snow doesn’t cut it anymore; you need an actual taste. Simple, honest words won’t satisfy; you want poetry a little more like Shakespeare. The God who loves you isn’t tangible enough; you look for romance that’s a little more spicy. You’re not being blatantly rebellious. You’re just looking for life. Who wants to be bored all the time?

I’m not ranting about the evils of stories like Twilight. What I am trying to say is this: We’ve got a lot of kids out there - good, church-going, Christian kids - who know the story of Bella and Edward a whole lot better than they know their Bibles. And they find it a lot more fascinating too. Why are they being captivated by vampires and not by Jesus? Is it really possible to be captivated by both? What do they see when they look at you? Are you showing them a God of big sticks and straight-backed pews? Or a Man who lived and died and rose again and knows a whole lot more about love than Edward ever will?

Faces from Haiti

I just realized I've talked quite a bit and haven't done a thing about pictures yet. Which I've no excuse for as our team managed to snap approximately 4,000 photos in the space of those seven days in Haiti. So, here's a bit of what we saw at least. It's actually in the form a music video, only without the music. The words are the English translation to the Creole song I wrote and sang for the Haitian people while in their country. I'm afraid you'll have to imagine the rest. Here's the English version:



Here's the kids at the orphanage listening to the Creole version of the song.

A Very Staid, Unenthusiastic Report on Dengue Fever (Sort of)

Well, we seem to be through the worst of it. The fire’s smoldering, the jump is landed, the bell has rung, and you can all go home. Which is precisely where we are. Home. Mom. Josh. Kent. Alnetta. Michelle. And all the rest who never went to the hospital in the first place. We’ve all survived, there will be no tolling of the bells or lowering of the great big somber boxes. You’ll have to save your dirt to throw for another day. We are in our perspective houses and are very much inclined never to set foot in a hospital again. Or at least not for a very long time.

But we’ve learned some amazing things. We’ve learned that the mission’s trip doesn’t have to end once you step off the airplane and back onto home turf. We’ve learned that there is power and community in the children of God coming together to pray. In Haiti and in good, old Nebraska. We’ve learned how to serve one another. We’ve learned the importance of bathing in Deet (*note to next year’s trip). I am also proud to say that our group is now able to give a very distinguished, comprehensive lecture on the causes, signs, and effects of dengue fever. We also ought to be able to give a very comprehensive lecture on grace. We’ve seen a lot of it.

Twenty-five healthy, robust (more or less) Americans grabbed our passports and sat down on a plane which was meeting another plane which was meeting another plane which was flying to Haiti. All 25 of us made it back. No broken bones. Ten of us got sick after making it back. All ten had dengue fever. Which is not contagious. Which is mild the first time around and worse the second. Did you know there’s actually four forms of dengue fever, and all ten of us got the weakest form? Did you know none of us had any internal bleeding? And of the random ten chosen, no two were from the same family. We had husbands taking care of their wives, wives taking care of their husbands, and mothers scurrying around everywhere.

Dengue fever isn’t that awful. (Eh-hem. Perhaps you ought to qualify that statement. It is made by a healthy, non-dengue-fever survivor.) But this statement is not qualified: God is gracious. It could have been worse. A lot worse.

But we serve a God who even instructs the feverish, irritating mosquitos which missionary to bite and which one to leave alone. Who says He didn’t know what He was doing? Who says it was just random chance? I know differently. We all do. The way it happened, we get to brag on what God has done. This way we couldn’t forget, even if we wanted to. This way the adventure that we thought was going to last a week got tripled in time. (We get our money’s worth, see?) This way we get cool T-shirts: “We went to Haiti and brought back the FEVER!”

A Present-Day Prayer Request

We were blessed in Haiti. You may have noticed. We can’t seem to stop talking about it. Everything reminds us of something there. We hope we’ll never be the same. I really wish you could see it when our team gets together. It’s like a family reunion. Minus a few members a ways down south. (You know who you are.)

We thought we’d had our adventure and returned to the real world. Time to get serious. We kept saying psychically proper things about readjusting and processing and sharing and all that. The psychologists would have been impressed. We thought we were out of school and into a quiet, meditative evening.

Well, we were wrong.

It started with Kent getting sick. Fever. Hospital. Doctors weren’t quite sure what to call it. Then it was my mom’s turn. Then Alnetta. Then Michelle. Then Larry, Josh, and Brandon. We were dropping like flies. On Sunday, we counted our numbers and asked each other who was going to be next.

We were only half-joking.

Yesterday we got the call from the local clinic, asking us all to please report. They had a state official waiting specially for us. And masks. And a very official sign taped to the door. “If you are coming from Haiti, please put a mask on before entering clinic. Thank you.” In pink. And please don’t use the front door.

We were starting to feel like we’d unwittingly walked into Area 51. Or the Einstein Project. Or something. But we donned our masks like good little children, took a scolding for being too cheerful inside a very soberly-run professional clinic, had our blood drawn, and were let loose and infectious out into the world again. Obviously, whatever we have, they didn’t think it was catching.

The next day (today) three of us checked into the hospital. Three of us that are still there. Low blood platelet count. Which as far as I can tell means that your blood is turning into Gatorade when it ought to be more like clam chowder. But if you want a more professional version, ask my sister. There’s a reason why she holds a stethoscope, and I hold a guitar.

So, my mom and Josh and Alnetta are still in the hospital as of tonight, 10:38 p.m. We had an hour and a half prayer meeting at the church and came away encouraged. But it’s pretty easy to be encouraged when you’re one of the healthy ones. The God who defeated all hell and the grave is the same God who has power over a nasty microscopic virus whizzing around on the wings of an obnoxious mosquito. A mosquito I very much hope has been squashed beneath some colorful Haitian flip-flop.

Our God is a faithful God and a God who is mighty to save. We have prayed, even though we’re not always quite sure precisely what to say. We are asking you to pray too.

Worshiping with the Ants

Written on October 8, in Haiti . . .

This morning I went up on a rooftop to talk with God. It was a Haitian rooftop, complete with drying clothes, coconuts growing next door, and a view of the ocean. And ants. There were a lot of ants. I didn’t actually notice them till I had sung a few songs. Who knew ants liked to go to church?

Although this group did look slightly confused. Like they weren’t actually sure if they’d made it into the church building or not. There they were, skittering around in wavery, disconnected jerks. No one was following anyone else. No one was walking in a straight line. If ever an ant family looked disoriented, this one had it down. Maybe they were looking for food. Or a new house. Or a lost comrade in anthood. Whatever it was, they didn’t seem to be finding it. They just kept skittering around, unsure and frustrated as ever.

They might have asked me. I could see for miles. I knew what was downstairs. Three cans of Pringles, a couple bags of fruit snacks, and lots of beef jerky. Those ants might have lived for years on what was downstairs. I could have found them a new house. Not that I’ve ever lived in an ant house before, but I knew where a nice pile of dirt was. And as for lost comrades - well, it’s hard to hide from someone who’s a couple hundred times bigger than you.

But the ants didn’t ask me. They never looked up.

And that’s when God spoke. “Lift up your eyes,” He said. Look up from your concerns and your projects and your deadlines and your skittering to and fro. If I am a couple hundred times bigger than an ant, God is a couple million times bigger than me (and then some). If I knew about the Pringles, God knows about every morsel of food on this planet (and then some). If I can find a house, He can build a world (. . . and then some). Do you think He does not care for you? He’s staring straight at us, but we’ll never see him by skittering around with our noses to the ground and our eyes searching frantically around us. We’ll never see Him unless we look up.

I shared this with the church in Haiti. I read parts of Isaiah 60 to them. In Haiti, I saw God’s church looking up. He had leveled their houses, their stores, even their churches. They didn’t have anywhere else to look. In Haiti, the church is experiencing the daily reality of dependence on God. May God’s church in America do the same.

Making Dents

Now that we’re back, it would be easy to say it was just Haiti. It was the amazing translators. The orphan kids. The leadership. Our team. Now we’re back in the “real world,” and you can’t possibly expect it to be the same. What we learned there was exceptional, different, unique. A once-in-a-lifetime experience. Now it’s back to the schedule: eight to four, three meals a day, open your Bible if you’ve got the time, and don’t forget to set the alarm. Leave the passion, the eagerness, the delicious taste of the unexpected - leave those back in Haiti. They belong to mission’s trips, not practical, daily living. Especially not in America.

Americans like schedules. We like statistics and things that we can prove. “What did you do in Haiti?” the Americans ask me. “Who did you help? What difference did you make? Were you able to make a dent down there at all?”

Well, no. No, not really. Unless you count a pinprick in an elephant’s toe as a dent. We didn’t really do much of anything in Haiti. We sweat off a few dozen pounds, guzzled water like a fish, and ate a couple hundred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. That’s basically all.

But ask me what Jesus did in Haiti - ask me if Jesus made a difference - and, well, that’s a different story.

I saw Jesus gripping the end of a jump rope and laughing with a group of teenage girls. I saw Jesus listening each morning for the Father’s voice and going out to do His will. I saw Jesus getting distracted mid-conversation and pausing to scoop a toddler up into his arms. I saw Jesus sitting on the concrete, looking up Bible verses with a friend. I saw Jesus dancing to the music, face lifted, hands raised, eyes closed, a huge grin on his face. I saw Jesus down on his knees in a bare living room. I saw Jesus holding a baby with a poopy diaper and letting the kids do his hair.

I saw Jesus take on hands and feet - our hands and feet - and walk down the rubble-strewn roads of Haiti in our flip-flops. I saw Jesus live and move and breathe and sweat through His people, His church.

I saw Jesus alive and well in His Body, the Body of Christ. Not some white building with pretty carpet. Not a new sound system. Not a busy Wednesday night. Not a well-attended service. I saw Jesus in our feet that walked and hands that touched and mouths that spoke and eyes that stared deep into the face of the world and said, “God loves you. Here, let me show you how much.”

We’re not really supposed to be denting anything out here. It doesn’t matter if we make an impact on anyone at all. But Jesus denting things? Jesus making an impact? Well, that’s another matter. “He must become greater; I must become less.” In Haiti, I watched Shane and Diana and Tyson and Michelle and all the rest of us become transparent. I watched us disappear. And then I saw Jesus step in and shine brilliantly in our place. If He can do that in Haiti, don’t you think He wants to do it in America too?

Hands and Feet

There weren’t separate days while we were in Haiti. Or so it seemed. Time blended together into one long, fascinating overflow of, “Wow . . . I see God!” Like the night we slept out on a Haitian rooftop under the stars, reading Scripture together and praying that no one would sleep walk off the roof. And that God would withhold the rain. He answered both. The way the kids looked at me with great concern when they saw my flip-flop had broken. Or when the translators talked about their future and the God who knew His plans for them. These are all snapshots, swirling together to form a living, vibrant tapestry of God’s hand in Haiti.

Here is one snapshot.

It was night, and we were all crowded under several large tarps (think of it as a fluid, rain-proof ceiling), sweating, smiling, and listening to the word of God. There were many children, but none quite so dirty as the little girl with short, ratted hair who wound through the white people, giving out hugs. Her name was something like Keysha, and the Haitians said she was crazy. Some kind of mental handicap maybe. Whatever it was, she was undoubtably friendly. And filthy. I didn’t want to know how long it had been since she’d taken a bath.

We trudged home in the rain and went to sleep in our rooms, and Keysha was forgotten. But God does not forget. The next morning, our team met up on the rooftop for morning devotions. In the middle of our worship time, we realized we were not alone. The little girl with ratted hair and mud running up and down her legs had come to join us. Some of us went to talk to her. She didn’t speak any English. We prayed with her. She still didn’t speak English.

So, we got a little more practical. We decided to give Keysha a bath.

And that’s when I saw the body of Christ in action. I saw one of the mom’s in the group take Keysha by the hand and smile encouragingly at her every time she was afraid. I saw one of the translators explain to Keysha that we wanted to help her. I saw the only girl on our team who was even close to Keysha in size and age give up a dress that she’d randomly tossed into her suitcase. God must love random.

And then I saw Keysha in a brand new dress, clean water dripping down her face, grinning. I saw her eyes light up when we gave her a bag of rice and snacks to take home. I saw her close her eyes and start chattering away in a foreign language, a huge smile on her face. They said she was praying. I saw her dig into the bag of food and start handing her snacks out to neighbor kids. Who taught this little girl to share like that?

I saw a child who was crazy, overlooked, and filthy . . . transformed under the practical love of Jesus. I saw the body of Christ become His hands and feet to touch the mud-splattered face of the world. I saw love. It walked and moved and reached and cleaned in the midst of us. It did to her body what He wants to do to our hearts. May we never be the same.

The Way the Sky Swallows the Sea

If I close my eyes, I see an ocean of blue spanning tan streets filled with potholes, trash, and rubble. I see brown rivers where Haitians are washing their clothes next to the pigs rooting through piles of rubbish. I see collapsed buildings and broken walls. I hear the little gray goat bleating for his mother like so many children cried for their parents ten months ago. I taste the sweat pouring down our faces and feel the gasp in our hearts. “How does anyone live like this?”

But that is not all I see. I see a little girl close her eyes and lift her face and dance before her God in heaven. I hear the drums and the voices loud and exuberant at midnight. I hear the worship songs that never seem to end, the songs I never want to end. I see the light flashing through their eyes as they cry, “Merci, Jesi! Merci, Jesi! Merci, Jesi!” I see the broken ruins of a church housing the live, vibrant body of Christ.

I remember how we visited their orphanage, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” I remember how we handed them a bag of rice, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” I remember how we shared our hearts and spoke the Word, and their reply was, “Thank You, God.” The church in Haiti is learning something through their devastation. They are learning something that the church in America desperately needs to hear. They are learning to look up. They are learning to look to God.

We visited them at lunch and found them on their knees. On the concrete, in the heat, on their knees. We collapsed onto our sleeping bags and air mattresses before midnight, exhausted, while they stood downstairs, hands raised, eyes closed, worshiping.

We asked where their joy came from. We asked if they were so joyful because they were learning dependence on God through the earthquake. We asked if God’s power through the earthquake was the source of their joy.

They said no.

They said they were sad because of the earthquake. They said many people died, many people lost homes, many people were hurt, and this made them weep. But that is not all they said. They said they did have joy. Not because God sent the earthquake. Not in spite of God sending the earthquake. They mourn for the earthquake. They rejoice in their God. And their rejoicing swallows their mourning the way the sky swallows the sea.

“We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.” Why? Because we have found our hope in the Lord. Because we seek His face in the morning and again at noon and again at night. Because Jehovah God is our light, our strength, our song. Merci, Jesi! Amen.

Car Repair 101

I am a firm believer in visiting local car repair shops while on vacation. I have to be. Every time I take a vacation, my car breaks down. Tires explode. Radiator hoses burst. Batteries die. I’ve seen more car repair shops outside the state of Nebraska than I have hotels. So, I recently took a trip to Paradise. You would have thought my car would give me a break since I was taking it there. No go. But I learned a very important lesson about car repair. It went like this:

There I was, stranded on the side of the road with a flat-as-a-pancake rear tire, a spare and a jack in the back, and very limited knowledge how to work either. And I was alone. Right outside a little place called Newcastle, Wyoming. With only 491 miles to go before I reached home.

Turns out Newcastlers like to farm. I know this because they drive pick-ups. Just like in Nebraska. Pick-ups quick capable of holding four young men. Who are prone to stop to help a stranded motorist. And who also just happen to be able to change a tire in under ten minutes. Which is a lot more than I can say for myself.

I was only a couple miles outside Newcastle, just on the other side of a bridge. But I might have been 50 miles away on the Interstate, speeding towards South Dakota. I think flat tires are worse at 75 mph. And the Interstate doesn’t have as many helpful drivers. Or nearby tire repair shops. But I was only close to Newcastle because I’d had to turn around. Because I’d missed my exit. Because I’d been distracted. Because I’d called my mom.

As it worked out, I and my spare tire made it back to the little farming community of Newcastle and got a brand new tire put on in under an hour. All I had to do was push the button to pop the trunk. I didn’t even have time to call for help. I felt like I had stepped into the NASCAR racing world or something. Who knows? Maybe my car was tired of all the times I’d stopped at restaurants and had decided to stop for a quick manicure before continuing the journey. So, the moral of the story? (It’s very important, especially for all your road-trippers.) If you’re going to have a flat tire, always call your mother first.

A Plastic Funeral

I presided over my first funeral today. I wish you could have been there. It was rather touching.

The dear deceased was a little plastic woman, all three inches of her owned, kept, and much beloved by Kylie, my niece. The mini-person was very agile. She knew how to do the splits and pull her legs up over her ears and bend over backwards. She could do things I’ve never seen a normal-sized person do. Her name was Mommy or Julie, depending on the day.

Then my dog found her. And chewed her head off.

Kylie was quite distraught. Especially when I handed her the head. Four-year olds shouldn’t have to see a thing like that.

So, I suggested a funeral.

It went off very well. We got an empty check box and filled it with two pieces of fabric, a purple flower, a hair clip, and the plastic woman. And her head. Then we got into our funeral clothes and waited for the rain to stop falling. Half an hour later, we filed somberly out into the cold and wind to the grave site. A patch of soft dirt at the back of the open shed. It was all very fittingly dark and gray and quiet.

I pulled down the shovel. Kylie was magnanimous and let the murderer attend the service. He tried to look properly sorrowful, but we had to remind him not to dig up the box in the ground.

We sang taps over the grave, and Ethan (big brother to the keeper of the deceased) played an African drum. Kylie wept. “I’m just so sorry. I’m just so sorry,” she said. And then she leaned against my leg, put her little gloved fingers up to her cheeks, and started sniffing.

The eulogy was short and sweet. “She was a good toy.” It sounded like something John Wayne would say if they’d made Toy Story a few dozen years before they did. Kylie was sniffing too much, and Ethan couldn’t remember any Bible verses. So, we stood in silence, thinking grave, noble thoughts.

Then it was time.

The honor of throwing the first handful of dirt went to the distraught keeper. She had to take her gloves off first. I heard a conspicuous sniff with every shovel-full I threw on top of the check box. Then she was buried. Committed to the ground. We planted a little rock to mark the grave. On the way back to the house, Ethan and Kylie discussed frogs and how silly they are.

One more little plastic life committed to the ground. One more four-year old introduced to grief. However fleeting. She is currently standing on the couch with drum sticks raised in the air, humming about Samson.

Her beloved plastic woman is gone. We’ll not say whether or not she is forgotten.

Spiderwebs

I was watching a spider build a web the other day. Actually, I didn’t know what he was doing at first. The sun was setting, the lighting wasn’t so good, and the little guy was dancing around in mid-air, doing something between a two-step and an I-might-have-had-a-little-too-much-to-drink ditty. I couldn’t figure out if I should laugh or call 9-1-1.

Then I moved my point of view. Tipped my head until I could see infinitesimally slender white strands woven round and round. A spider’s web. He’d gotten the frame up and ready, but now he was putting up the walls. Two hops forward, one leg to the side to measure, and a little skitter to the inside. Clockwise. Do spiders always build their webs clockwise? Over and over, around and around. Building his web.

Of course, if I looked at it the wrong way, I still couldn’t see the infinitesimally slender strands, and he still looked a little tipsy. Even though I knew differently. But if I moved my position, the picture was perfectly clear.

It was fascinating, really. Watching this tiny pale builder work so diligently on a house I knew was only going to last till daybreak. If even that. Knowing that it was going to the wind - Look out if it rains! - and he was going to have to start the whole thing over again tomorrow. If it were me, I’d sit down and cry. He didn’t seem to care. He put the same care and precision into each strand today as he did yesterday. And the day before that. On and on, web after web. Cautiously building as though it’s going to last forever.

The same way God paints a sunrise. Or builds a snowflake. Or throws a lightning bolt. Or teaches a human, finite heart.

What I Learned This Summer

The chaos is over. Insanity has ended. Life can get back to normal.

If life ever was normal.

This last Monday, we performed The 13 Clocks for the third and last time. In Hastings for Crossroads Mission (which is a Christian organization somewhere between the Salvation Army and Boystown).

We’ve been through a lot with this play. In January, I read the book which turned into the script. In February, I sat there staring at the impossibly long list of things I needed to be able to turn a book into a script. In March, I talked sixteen formerly happy people into volunteering as on-stage guinea pigs. April and May were practices. Or attempts at practices. Work, family, sickness, chores, sports, babies, and the army take a very large chunk out of rehearsal time. The first day of June was our first performance. It was like having a baby. It came a day early. We weren’t due till the second. But that got changed three days before. Welcome to Royal Family Kids Camp. Please sit in your seats for half an hour, ADD children, then we’ll give you cookies and tell you in the second half whether the prince lives or not. They loved it. We were pretty thrilled too.

The rest of that month was spent losing three more cast members (we’d already lost two in May). In July, we gritted our teeth and performed again. In Central City this time. For anyone who wished to come.

And two days ago was our grand finale. In Hastings. For an audience of former drug addicts, homeless people, and families who have been through abuse.

Why did we bother? If you’ve read James Thurber, you probably have a good idea of part of the answer. But only part. It was much more than the script. After each performance, we took the opportunity to share the Gospel with the audience. If our God is a God who “devises ways so that a banished person may not remain estranged from Him,” then I don’t know why we’re not busy devising ways too. After all, we plot and scheme to make money, to spend more time with family, to be better at sports, to have more free time. Why not plot and scheme for ways to share the Gospel? Our God is a creative God. He is as capable of being glorified through a mission’s trip or a theology degree or a new church building as He is through thirteen clocks.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be dramatic. I have a slight tendency towards creativity (it’s nothing compared to what God does), and so it was very full of drama in my case. But sharing the Gospel is fully worth plotting and scheming for. Even without guinea pigs and cookies.

That’s what I learned this summer.

Here's some pictures:
The brilliant cast and their unflustered, completely organized director.


I don't know what it is, but it's the only one there ever was.


I have tales to disturb a dragon's sleep!


A noble prince. A noble lady. When they are wed, a million people will be glad!


In the tavern. (Don't worry; the cups were empty.)

(More pics on my facebook page if you're interested. :-))

Collecting Bulletins

Have you ever gone on a church bulletin hunt? Sort of like an Easter egg hunt, only different.

You should try it sometime. It would probably be easiest on a Sunday. Go to all the churches you can, grab a bulletin, and get out. It’s harder than it sounds.

Guess what I did this morning?

It wasn’t entirely on purpose. But I did end up with a record total of three genuine church bulletins. Evangelical, Lutheran, and Presbyterian. Not bad for a first try. I learned all sorts of fascinating things. Nick’s birthday is on the 7th. Hosea 11:1-11. Jeri Gray helped with the service. 21st: Baby shower for Kayla Merchant. Hm. I should probably go to that one. The small chalice has grape juice. Gloria Patri. Amen. *Please stand if able.

It started like this. I walked into my first church, accepted the proffered bulletin (#1), and stole a microphone stand. Borrowed. With every intention of returning. And spoken permission first. The theft was for the sake of my second church. Or what was supposed to be my second church.

It was next door. Has been for many years, I’m sure. I lugged my musical paraphernalia (stolen and otherwise) through the front door, accepted the proffered bulletin (#2), lugged my stuff down the front aisle, and into the first pew. Several people in the congregation were looking at me with slightly confused faces. Strange. I was sure they’d told me the service started at 9:30. I looked at the clock. 8:58.

But I needed to find Doug. The pastor who had invited me to come and sing. I walked out into the foyer and noticed a large woman in a white robe with a green and gold stole. She didn’t look anything like Doug. But she did look like she might be in charge. I walked up, smiling, and asked if she knew where Doug was.

She frowned.

It’s never a good sign when they do that. She shook her head, and I began to get the message. The last Presbyterian church I went to definitely did not have anyone dressed as a priest.

Then I saw the sign. Not a heavenly vision or anything. Just a large, obvious poster over by the front door. Grace Lutheran Church.

Oh, no. Not again. (Have I told you about the time I went to the E-Free Church in Grand Island instead of the one in Hastings?)

I went back into the sanctuary, past the still slightly confused stares of the congregation, grabbed my stuff (stolen and otherwise), and marched out of the room. Or half-way out. Until the large woman in the green and gold stopped me and very loudly laughed that, no, they hadn’t been expecting me; no, this wasn’t the Presbyterian church; but, no, they wouldn’t mind if I stayed!

Thanks. Now that the entire world knows.

I exited. Gracefully. Eh-hem.

I got bulletin #3 on the second floor of the third church. It was in the sanctuary on the piano, and it had my name on it. That’s when I learned about Hosea and standing if able. I sat down. I finally found the place where I belonged. At least for the next hour. Then I gathered up my three church bulletins and headed out the door.

I’ll let you know how Round Two goes.

Addicted

Hi. My name is Rebecca. I’m addicted to taking mission’s trips.

No. Really. I think I am. Nothing helps. I should know; I’ve tried. Spending all my money on . . . car insurance and Captain Crunch. Watching movies of foreign places and pretending I’m there. Reading horror stories of planes swallowed by the sea. Locking myself in the closet.

Okay, I never really locked myself in the closet.

I even moved to Hong Kong for a year and a half. And went on a week-long mission’s trip to the Philippines from there.

But I thought I was making a break-through. I haven’t been out of the country for an entire 24 months. Two years and no new stamps in the passport. That’s pretty good, right? And I’ve only been to ten states in the meantime. Eh-hem. Eleven. Not counting Nebraska.

I have a confession to make. I’m going to Haiti in October.

Sorry, fellow addicts. I’ve let you down. Again.

It was my church’s idea. My dad’s helping to head it up. My sister’s going. And my mom. And my brother-in-law. Plus 16 other people I more or less know. My dog has to stay home.

I’m actually pretty excited. Except the part about my dog. Is that better than being in denial? We’re going with AIM (Adventures in Missions), and we’ll be doing stuff with food, orphans, churches, water, mosquitoes, sweat, and cameras. We don’t actually know exactly what we’re going to be doing. Flexibility is a good thing. I’ll let you know when I get back.

The exact dates of the trip are October 3-10. Two and a half months and counting. We need shots and backpacks and stickers and plane tickets and bug spray. And prayer. We could use quite a bit of prayer. For flexibility. If we’re open to anything, I’m sure God will do the rest.

So, I’m inviting you to join in the addiction. I’d tell you to come, but we’ve already got more on the trip than we’re supposed to. You can go next year. In the meantime, please pray. For us. For them. For you. For the world. God is much more addicted to missions than I am.


Here we are. The team. Stocking up on shots and counting down the days.

Front Door Entertainment

So, lately I’ve been shaking off feelings of slight boredom and possible uselessness. This is Nebraska, after all. The corn doesn’t need that much help growing. And taking daily measurements shouldn’t really be my favorite pastime. It isn’t healthy.

But where are the oceans? The rain forests? The spectacular waterfalls and breathtaking heights? It’s kinda hard to rock-climb down a ditch. Ever tried scuba diving in a mud puddle? Wow. Look at those mosquito babies.

Then I walked out the front door and saw this:


But that wasn’t quite interesting enough. So, I dug out the extra-strength macro lens and tried again. That helped.


Personally, I think he’s rather cute.

Spiderman does exist. Only they got the color all wrong. It’s green, not red. Sparkly green, to be more precise. Maybe they figured it wasn’t masculine enough. Gotta leave the man something to be proud of if he does have to walk around in tights.

I think the little guy liked getting his picture taken. He stared straight at me the whole time and wiggled just enough to show off his good side. I can just hear him, jabbering away through his pincers. “Do I look fat from this angle? How about now?”

I was rude. I didn’t even answer him. To be honest, I was a little preoccupied wrapping the camera strap securely around my neck. Didn’t want to drop it when I screamed and leapt skyward. I had to be prepared in case he jumped on me.

Hm. He never jumped. The camera’s still in one piece. So is my neck, for that matter.

But the world lost a fascinating model ten minutes later. My mom was spraying for flies and she hit bigger game. Goodbye, Spiderman. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you you weren’t fat.

Bug Juice and Life Purposes

It started out much like a court session. Or what I assume court sessions are like from my extensive experience watching them on movies.

“All arise. The honorable Judge presiding.”

“This court is now in session.”

“Will the plaintiff (That’s me.) please arise and state her case.”

So, I pretended to stand (Pretending was my safest bet since I was driving.) and stated my case. It was quite a good case too. All about how unfair it is for this world to be so beautiful, so lost, with so many opportunities for doing good, and why don’t I seem to fit in anywhere? I’m piece 101 in a hundred piece puzzle. The chocolate chip cookie when everyone’s full on ice cream and cake. Superfluousity. And while we’re at it, why is the sky blue? What makes it blue instead of something else? And why, if air is clear, can’t we see the stars while the sun is shining? And why, if we are all born with a purpose, can’t I find mine? Is it hiding under the couch? What is the meaning of life? I felt just like Solomon. Spouting off bits of wisdom that would make great Chinese proverbs if only I were Chinese. Maybe he could be the wisest man in the world, and I could be the wisest woman.

And then God spoke.

A bug splooshed against my arm. (For those of you who don’t know, a sploosh is something between a squelch and a splosh. I’m sure all mothers know exactly what I’m talking about.) Bug juice went everywhere. There was a nice slimy trail up my arm and little dabs on my thumb.

One-arm-out-the-window drivers, take warning.

“This court is now adjourned.”

It’s rather hard to state your case about the unfairness of life with bug juice splattered on your arm. It’s even harder to stay mad at the Judge who splattered you.

So, what did I do once I’d stopped case-stating? I laughed. All because some poor bug gave up his juice all over my arm just to get God’s point across. Did that bug think his life was superfluous?

I was driving to work. I looked at my arm, considering whether or not I could get away with leaving the bug juice on. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wash it off. It’s reminding me of God.”

That might not have gone over very well. I’ll never know. I didn’t try.

I still have my job.

So, what have I learned? Hm. I’m not entirely sure.

Moral #1: Roll up the window. Turn on the air conditioning. Save a bug’s life.

Moral #2: Never attempt to take your car into court.

Moral #3: When God says, “You are so small. When I look at you, I need a magnifying glass. Or I would if My eyesight wasn’t so good. Why do you want to be bigger than I made you?” - listen well. He’s got plenty of bug juice to back Him up.

An Advertisement: Looking for a Prince Not on Drugs

As you may have heard, I have been on the most particular look-out for a prince as of late. I say most particular because we have a short but precise list of qualifications that simply cannot be ignored. They are as follows: He must be taller than five foot nine. (Can’t be shorter than the princess, you know.) Able and willing to wear a purple robe, get down on one knee, appear to be quite smitten, and pick up a Golux. Harmonica skills are helpful. And he can’t be on drugs.

If you’ve read a certain previous blog, you will know that we are looking for this prince to fill a roll in a play. (Princes who would like to fill non-stage rolls, please apply elsewhere.) Actually, we had found one already, and he was doing just swimmingly.

Until he got on drugs.

They weren’t kidding when they told you they ruin people’s lives. On stage and off.

We now find ourselves, having captured one once, utterly princeless again. Our back-up (we like to keep one on the shelf, you might say) absconded for the military. For the two others we petitioned, one fled the state, and the other is plagued by nightmares. I’m not joking either.

So, here I am, sitting at my computer, typing up an advertisement that isn’t really an advertisement at all. For the lost young man in question is still a man, if not a prince, and drugs are involved (as well as other things as bad, if not worse), and that is not a thing to be laughed at.

So, even though we are rather in need of a thing with a couple legs and arms and vocal capacity (preferably in English) for what we do on stage, there is a life that is not the stage at all, although it sometimes feels like it, and the choices we make there resonate throughout all eternity. (And that wasn’t just melodrama.) And this young man who used to be a prince isn’t doing so well. And I know a God who rescues the broken and responds to the prayers of His children. And my question for you is, “Will His children pray?”

Both Sides of the Ocean

In March I was in New Jersey at the Atlantic Ocean. This month, I was in Oregon at the Pacific. Two oceans in the same year. Not bad. I’ve decided I’m incredibly blessed. Last week I was on stage performing our rather revised rendition of The Thirteen Clocks. This week, I was compelling my flat-lander legs up not one, but two Oregonian mountains. I’ve flown around the globe (and it only took me a year). I’ve visited four continents, ten countries (I think; am I forgetting any?), and stayed in I don’t remember how many different rooms. I’ve biked downtown Portland and ridden up a ski lift. I’ve been on a boat in the ocean and hiked through a rainforest. I’ve eaten wild snake, watched (not eaten) wild zebras, and taken pictures of monkeys in a zoo stuffing themselves on birthday cake. (This is all true, by the way.) I’ve run a horse down a cornfield in Nebraska and ridden a truck past rice fields in the Philippines. I’ve survived tornadoes, hurricanes, and strange guys stopping on the side of the road to ask me out. I’ve worked in an orphanage, a school, a youth ranch, a day care, a Sunday school class, and my sister’s house, and came out still liking kids. (Melody, that one was for you.) I’ve watched the sun set from an airplane, the wind blow through the flat lands, the moon rise over the ocean, and the stars sparkle above the mountains.

Any one of these would be a grand adventure, but I’ve got such a list, I can’t even name them all. Truly, God has granted me an incredibly blessed life. Not only do I get to see the ocean, but I get to see it from both sides. And not just once, but over and over again. Like coming into Heaven's throne room and looking into the face of God, not just once, but daily, morning, noon, and night, over and over again.

Here are a few of the photos from my latest journey - a week-long trip out to Washington and Oregon:

A Week Out of This World

I was out at camp this past week. It felt kind of like checking out of this world. I forgot all about making money to pay for gas to drive to work to make more money. I forgot that someone had invented the Internet so you could keep in touch with all the people you didn’t have time to see. I forgot about the oil spill in the Gulf. I forgot about inflation and depression and starvation and deprivation. All I knew was that there were these creepy eel-like fish in the pond that could sometimes be convinced to snap at a worm on a hook. And a paper airplane was much cooler when thrown from the top of the zip line tower. And pink was definitely the best color for finger nail polish. Especially if it sparkled.

And there were a bunch of kids just waiting to hear that Jesus loved them. Like the boy who couldn’t get to sleep one night and was heard singing, “I am a child of God,” over and over again. And the little girl who begged me to go on the four wheeler with her - and then the rock climbing wall - and then the fishing pond - and then the crafts building . . . And all the kids, when they packed into the bus to go home, and some were crying, and we broke out with our “Oh ma chay chay” chant, and suddenly everyone was smiling again.

These weren’t just your normal camp kids. These were Royal Family Camp kids, kids who had been through the system. Abandoned, abused, neglected, forgotten. But for five days, we got to tell them they were loved. For five days, I watched every single one of the counselors and staff show these hurting kids purposeful, truthful love. It truly was like living in a different world. I wish you could have seen it. I wish you could have seen what it looks like when God’s people intentionally love the way God loves.

The following are the words to a song I wrote specially for this year’s group of kids. So they would begin to realize how very, very much they are loved.

Beautiful You
Hush, my darling, it’ll be alright
Wipe your tears, all the nightmares
I’ll fight away, don’t be afraid
You are Mine
You are Mine
Hush, my darling, and hold on tight
You’re not alone in the dark of night
You are safe if you remain
By My side
By My side

Cause I found you
And I love you
And I call you beautiful
And I made you
And I know you
You are beautiful
Beautiful, beautiful you

You are My darling, and I
Am the one who loves you
More than anyone you’ve ever
Known to love you before
I love you more

I once dreamed a most beautiful, beautiful dream
And that dream was
That dream was you

Drying Socks and Answered Prayer

So, I was driving down the highway, holding my socks out the window to dry. (Note to self: Socks need more than 10 minutes in the dryer before work.) And I was thinking about the play. For those of you who have ever been a director or pregnant, you understand why. (After all, there are a lot of similarities between preparing for a play and preparing to have a baby.) We have our first performance for this summer coming up on Wednesday, June 2. Our goal in doing this play is to share Christ’s love with children who have known a lot of things that weren’t love. But that doesn’t mean our preparations have been made to angels singing “Hallelujah” or even “I’ve got peace like a river.” However, God has never left us lacking - at least, not for long. And it has been an adventure to see Him answer prayer. Here’s a partial list:

1) I asked for a script - but only if God wanted this and would provide everything else. Three days later, He sent the book The Thirteen Clocks, which I’d never heard of before, down the front door stairs and into my hands.

2) He provided all the actors/actresses except the Prince. (Go figure.) I’m debating writing a book, “In Search of a Prince.” If any of you ladies have a relevant anecdote you’d like to send my way, I’m sure I could find a place for it. :-) Oh, but then God did provide a Prince: one who needed a house and a job.

3) God provided our Prince with a house and a job. In Kansas. We needed a new Prince.

4) God provided a second Prince. So far so good.

5) We decided to sew all our own costumes, even though “sewers” (I’ve heard they prefer the title “seamstresses”) seem to be in short order these days. Knowing that, God provided a mother who happens to be a genius in the art. Guess what she’s been doing for the last two weeks?

6) We picked a single fabric store out of all the vast list of fabric stores in Grand Island, Lincoln, and Omaha - and, lo and behold! - what might have cost hundreds of dollars was all half price!

That’s some of what I’ve seen in the last few months. Some of the things God did I didn’t even know to pray for. Isn’t it amazing that He’ll know and even answer before we even know enough to ask? And when we put ourselves in places of need - the times when we know we’re in trouble if He doesn’t show up - that is when God is most able to reveal Himself.

This Means War

When I was a child, I remember seeing a snake stretched across the sidewalk in our front yard. Me and my brother decided to be heroes. We mounted our trusty blue tricycle and ran the villainous thing over. Then we scooped up its expired carcass with a stick and paraded it into the house. It was almost as good as slaying a dragon. They never warn you that there might be a second one.

This morning I took my dog for a walk. Lovely day. Blue skies, smiling sun, empty country roads. The grass is turning green, and flowers are popping up all over the place. Then we got back home. And saw this:

Serene little house, isn’t it? Only, wait . . . Could we zoom in on that one spot please?


Hm. Maybe you still can’t see it that well.


How’s that?


Oh. There we go.


It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen. Sharks may be terrifying, sure. Spiders are actually a tiny bit cute. But snakes are positively loathsome. Never mind that this particular gathering was made up only of darling, helpful, non-poisonous garter snakes. Darling my foot.

So, after running for my camera, I did what any rational, law-abiding adult would do. I declared war. Running screaming to my car, I peeled out of the driveway and bore down on the writhing mass of insufferable grotesqueness. I’m pretty sure for a moment my car entertained dreams of being in the Indianapolis 500. Then there was a bump. Four down. Nine hundred ninety six miserable creatures to go.

The survivors slithered for the grass, and I ran for Weapon of Mass Destruction Number Two. The shovel. It’s kind of an archaic thing with a wooden handle that feels like it’s petrified and a head that’s seen sharper, shinier days. But I wasn’t about to be picky. Shovel in hand, I sprinted Indian-style (I was in flip-flops, which are pretty close to moccasins) onto the road. There, I met an Impasse.

Well, first, I stopped to look nonchalant and wave at the farmer driving by. Then I met an Impasse.

I was on the road. The snakes (those still alive) were worming their cowardly way through the grass. To make use of WoMDNT, I and my Indian-style flip-flops were going to have to brave The Lawn. I considered for a moment. The conclusion I came to gives me full understanding of why the Indians used to do snake dances and rain dances and that sort of thing. I called up all my courage and jumped (quite literally) into action. There I was, bouncing up and down in my flip-flops, shovel poised at the ready, eyes darting about. If a forked tongue so much as flicked in my direction, I was going to bring that shovel down hard. Or run screaming in the other direction. One unlucky piece of misery wriggled into eyesight. The shovel fell. Nine hundred and ninety five to go.

War or no, it was definitely half time. I scampered inside and spent the next five minutes pacing up and down, staring suspiciously under every dresser, double checking every electric cord to make sure it hadn’t turned into something worse, and muttering, “Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew,” every second or so.

So, where am I going now? Well, I just peeked out the window, and the writhing mass of insufferable grotesqueness is back at its station on the sun-warmed gravel road. I’m going to get in my car. But before I do, I would like to propose a toast. To all the heroic tricycles and their riders. May the snakes never forget you.

The Ocean

I was at the Atlantic Ocean last week. Little town called Cape May. During the off-season when the shells are out full-force and the tourists aren't. It was beautiful. This is what I came away with (aside from a couple dozen seashells):

The ocean reminds me of God. It is such a vast thing. I can look as far as I can see and stare as long and as hard as I can, and yet even then I have only seen the minutest skimming of the depths and widths of water that make the ocean. It is unfathomable. Our attempts at comprehension are as a lone bee’s attempts to gather all the pollen in a thriving garden. Even a careful study of all its passions and glories leaves us still trembling before a power that could effortlessly end our world. To put the ocean on a map is like trying to make God stay inside a box. It simply does not fit. The light swirling blueness on paper, precisely outlined and carefully labeled, is nothing like the real ocean of raging fury and weighty enormousness. Its gentlest whisper is to us ferocious strength. The touch of its hand is as the shadow of Jupiter to our moon. Its playfulness is our death. We cannot begin to drain it, tame it, better it, or understand it. Staring, our delight turns to silence and then to awe and then to terror. To advance is to be crushed. To depart is to be lost. Thus is the ocean. Thus is God.

An Announcement

And now I’m supposed to say something like, “An ancient, twice-removed, long-lost great-great aunt just died and left me half a million dollars!” (That’s after taxes.) Or, “Uh, I may have forgotten to mention it, but I eloped last week.”

Well, it’s nothing quite that astonishing. Just a brief update. If any of you have ever read James Thurber, you’re about to be thrilled. He’s an author (or was; I think he may have died) who had his eye shot out with an arrow in a game of William Tell. Which in my mind makes him utterly fascinating (even if he is dead). If you do recognize the name, you probably know that he wrote books with rather clever, interesting twists of humor. One of those books happens to be called The Thirteen Clocks. And it is about to become a play.

I’m back in my role as director. Sort of. We’ve actually got two groups starting up rehearsals for what we hope to be many performances this summer. I’m directing in one and acting in the other. It ought to be great fun. The goal is to get out to different places where people can come who wouldn’t normally get to see a play. Like the kids from social services who come out to Royal Family Kids’ Camp, just fifteen minutes out of Central City. Or the people you might meet at the Salvation Army in Grand Island or Crossroads in Hastings.

Perhaps we’re intending to revive the old, traveling troupe idea. Rather like the gypsies. But the real goal behind this is to tell our audiences, who are often ignored by today’s entertainment-crazed world, that not only did we show them a little bit of love by getting all this stuff together to put on a decent play, but Jesus loves them even more and proved it by coming into our world as a man and dying on the cross and coming back to life again.

So, if you’d like to start hanging out at your local Salvation Army, maybe we’ll see you out in the audience. In the meantime, we’d greatly appreciate your prayers. We’ve got the crew to find, insanely busy schedules to deal with, medieval costumes, different stages, lines to memorize, and a thousand jewels to track down!

Trusting in the God who named the stars, sees a bird when it falls, and knit us together in our mother’s womb.

The God Who Moves Under the Ice

I went on a walk beside the creek today. We are in the midst of a deep, cold winter, and all about is covered with snow and ice and dead things. There is not a spark of green to be seen anywhere, the wind was blowing bitter and fierce, and even the sun was having a hard time shining. And there lay the river, buried in a coffin of ice so thick I had walked over it quite confidently not a month past. And then I heard a whispering, spluttering sound that sounded suspiciously like the sound of rushing water. My eyes roved over the snow-painted creek, and there, at the foot of a tiny fall, the ice broke, and the dark shadow of moving water could be glimpsed underneath.

It was a reminder to me that even in the deepest night of winter, when all seems irredeemably chilled and dead, God yet stirs the water. Some day He will melt the ice, the river will flow again, the grass will sprout green, and leaves will flourish on the bare branches of the trees. But until then, today is not wasted. Even though we can’t always see it, He is even now moving under the ice.

"He makes everything beautiful in its time."

The Second Half . . .

(So, just in case you haven’t read the previous post, this is a short explanation of the stories behind the songs that appear on my debut album, “Home.” We’ve done songs 1-4; starting now on 5 . . .)

5) "Sacrificed": I don’t actually remember much about writing this song, except that it was made on the guitar, which I just picked up playing a few years ago. The guitar was a surprise birthday present from some good friends in Oregon, and has since been used as a blessing to both me and others. It is this guitar that I took with me to Africa and used to find the notes for the two African songs. The song “Sacrificed” is a simple poem, almost a psalm, about what Jesus gave for my sake and for yours.

6) "Home": This is the song that inspired the title of the album, “Home,” and it is an attempt to describe the reality of what a relationship with the Savior can look like. That it is possible to enjoy His presence the way you enjoy the companionship of your best friend. I think oftentimes we get distracted by the fact that we can’t see or touch God, and so we feel like we can’t really know Him. “Home” is a rebuff against those feelings. It is the result of trying to follow the words, “Delight yourself in the Lord.”

7) “Hope and Wait”: This is the song I wrote a couple days after my cousin, Scott Burkitt, was killed in a car accident late last summer. His death came as a shock to all the family, but we have come to a deeper understanding of the God who does not make mistakes and is never off in His timing. This same God is the One who does not desert us in death but welcomes all who are truly His into the place He himself made for us, the place we were made for. As Jesus said, “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God; trust also in Me. In My Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.” I dedicate this song to Scott’s family.

8) “Lullaby”: This is another song with a dedication. Over the last few years, several close friends and sisters of mine have gone through miscarriages. I have come to realize that this is actually quite a common thing, but that doesn’t lessen the pain of it. As a girl who would in all honesty rather hold a puppy than a baby, I can’t pretend to know the pain of a miscarriage. Life is so precious, and it’s almost impossible to understand why the innocent are taken away. But our lack of understanding does not diminish the God who comes wrapped in love, even in death. This song is dedicated to Melody, Kayla, and Katie.

9) "Shatter Me": I put this song last on the CD because it is a challenge, a sort of personal application, if you will. The song gives us a glimpse into the heart’s conflict in the midst of the daily-ness of living with all its surprises, hurts, and hopes set against the command of the Lord who calls us to follow Him anywhere He leads. So often, God wants to use the very daily-ness we struggle and whimper against to draw us closer to Him. He calls it obedience; we call it surrender. But His shattering, when we truly fall on our knees before Him and allow Him to do anything He wills with us, brings about the joyful life we all so desperately long for. We can’t have it unless we will obey.

A Look Behind the Music (as they say...)

First off, thanks, all who have commented on the songs. You do all this editing and staring at a computer screen, trying to get the songs where and how you want them to look. And then you hit “Save Changes” and wonder if anyone’s going to even bother looking at them anyway. In our new, silently technology-savvy world, it’s nice to know you’re out there!

I thought you might enjoy hearing at least a little bit about the reasons behind the songs themselves. I wanted to add this in the CD insert, but there wasn’t room - and then, of course, some of you don’t have the insert at all and are simply listening to the music via computer. So, here’s a bit about the first few songs . . .

1) “Just Like Always”: This is a song I wrote several years ago after I’d taken a lonely walk down a good, old-fashioned Nebraska country road. It ran straight ahead and straight behind (like most roads in Nebraska do), and I looked up to see home looming nearby and the sun setting in the west and cornfields stretching out left and right. And I thought how grand it was that I could walk alone down this road and yet not really be alone because of the One who said, “I will never leave you or forsake you.” And so a song was born. (Note: The country twang came accidentally. I used to hate country music; I think I’ve more or less accepted it now, and even enjoy it sometimes.)

2) “Toliba Weka” (Translation: “Never Alone”): This and the fourth song are the reason this CD was made at all. Two summers ago, I took a trip to Africa with Music for Life (parent organization for the African Children’s Choir). During the second half of that trip, in Uganda, I wrote the words to this song to share with the children there. A good friend from Uganda then translated the words from English into Luganda, helped me with the pronunciation, and I set the words to music. I was blessed to be able to sing several times to the children there, at a school, an orphanage, and the Music for Life facilities. And, quite unexpectedly, on my return to the States, God gave me the privilege of singing three times more to various Ugandan groups touring this country. (For the story that perhaps best describes why I wrote this and the other African song, see “Day 12" in the September 2008 archives of this blog.)

The full translation of this song into English is as follows: Dear child, remember you are never alone//I wrote this song just for you/I want you to know/That you have a Creator in Heaven/Who loves you so much//God has your name written on His hand/God holds love for you in His heart.

3) “Faithful”: This is my personal favorite song on this CD, and the first one we recorded in studio. I actually didn’t know we were going to record it that day, but when I sat down at the piano to “play a little something,” we decided to break out the microphones and start recording! I don’t think I can rephrase the message of the song better than the lyrics themselves already do. It’s a very simple song, one I was inspired to write when I was plunking away at the piano keys one day, and it tells about the utter faithfulness of my God and Savior, Jesus Christ.

4) “Urukundo Niruhemuka” (Translation: “Love Never Fails”): Well, if you’ve read about the second song already, you have a good idea why I wrote this one as well. It’s more or less the same, except that this song was written during the first half of the Africa trip and is in Kinyarwanda, which is the language in Rwanda.

Full translation into English: I want to say to you/Beautiful child/That your Father in Heaven/Loves you very much/Every time you smile/Every tear you cry/Every dream/He sees and understands/He is wonderful/Your God made you just as you are/For a purpose/And His purpose is love//Remember, love never fails.

Plans and the Internet

You may have noticed the picture at the top of this blog. The one that looks suspiciously like something you might find on the front of a CD album cover. (Which might be because of the words “debut album” floating across the bottom right-hand corner.)

Well, it’s not actually. A CD album cover, that is. It was booted out in favor of a different photo I had on hand. But there is a real CD album cover. Complete with accompanying CD case and CD. Amazing how far technology will take you these days. I hadn't the slightest clue what I was doing (and to be quite honest, I still don't think I really do). But due to the fact that God had me born in this time and place and not a thousand years ago or on the unnamed, deserted island I sometimes wish I was living on, I now have a CD. Designed, researched, edited, copyrighted, ordered, uploaded, and downloaded on the Internet. (Let me point out that you're also reading about this on the Internet.) Created in studio. Written at home. It’s entitled “Home” (the narrow winner over my second choice, “Internet”), and if you go to www.amazon.com right now, search MP3 downloads, and type in “Rebecca Johnson, Home,” it will show up. Unless your connection stops working. Which is what mine just did. The songs should also be making themselves available on itunes within the next couple weeks. And I have a myspace at www.myspace.com/rebeccasjohnson. I figured I might as well go all out.

So, how’d this all come about? . . . Well, that’s a good question. I think it started late one Monday night in Africa after I’d spent a day with orphan kids who weren’t wearing any shoes and couldn’t stop smiling at me. Or maybe it was before that in March when I stepped into an actual professional recording studio. Or possibly it was that first song I wrote back in fifth grade about eagles' wings. Or maybe God’s been planning this before the creation of the world.

“ ‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord.” Which is why it’s absolutely okay that I don’t have a clue. Besides, this way, you can’t give me any of the credit or glory. It all goes to Him, right where it belongs.

Kids and Puppies

Recently, it has come into my mind that there’s not so much difference between being a mom and owning a dog. Kids and puppies. They both smell funny and like to chew on things they’re not supposed to. Their noses run. The value of your house begins a slow (or fast) downward spiral the moment they arrive. You start feeling jittery if you let them out of your sight for more than ten seconds, and when you do finally dash off to take your speed shower, you pray they don’t move.

I’m what you might call an expert in this subject (and I don’t say that about many subjects). I don’t have a kid; I don’t need one: my family’s already got seven. Three babies, one toddler, and three little guys that are most definitely 100% kid. I’ve got a dog. The similarities are astounding. My sister yells at her kids to stop jumping on the couch; I yell at my dog to stop jumping on the kids. She gets woken up at 3:00 in the morning by a baby crying for food; I get woken up by a puppy that’s got to go potty now. Her vehicle’s back seat is a mess of half-eaten french fries and toy pieces; my back seat is a mess of muddy paw prints and dog hair.

It’s amazing how much you have to pack for an overnight stay with a baby or a dog. Diapers. Leash. Bottle. Doggy treats. Binkie. Pillow. (The pillow’s for my dog; he sleeps on one at night.) It’s amazing how much money you start spending, not on yourself. On them. On it. It’s amazing what you hear coming out of your mouth. “Don’t eat so fast; you’ll choke and die.” “Don’t take her toy; she had it first.” “What’d you do with your blanket?” “Why aren’t you in bed sleeping like you’re supposed to?” (And believe me, I’ve heard these said to both kids and dogs!)

Then again, I’ve never heard my sister yell, “Get that poop out of your mouth!”

Maybe, there’s a difference between kids and puppies after all.