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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
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. :-))
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. :-))
Sunday, August 1, 2010
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.
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.
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