I am putting on my make-up in the Ladies' Room at the Salt Lake City International Airport.

A silver fox walks in, smartly dressed in black fleece.  Lips red, hair Helen Mirren white-silver.  She washes her hands and then tries to lift the thinning tuft with her fingers.

Eyeliner.  Shadow.  Mascara.  I watch her from the corner of my newly lined eyes.

"Your hair is really beautiful," I say, twisting the mascara wand back in its case.

"Thank you," she sighs, "What is left of it."  A lipstick and powder compact venture from her purse.

"I'm always on the lookout for cute short hair.  My grandmother recently lost her hair during her cancer treatment and it is now slowly growing back," I say, as if I need a reason to compliment what she obviously disdains.

"Yes, that's what's happening to mine.  I just started chemo again and it's beginning to fall out.  What kind of cancer does your grandmother have?"  The words come out crisp, simply stating the facts.

"Ovarian," I reply.

"Me too."

In that moment, specifically in the words "me too," my eyes well up with tears and I panic that my mascara will run.  I try not to cry.  It doesn't work.

"It's so emotional," she says calmly, and then turns away from the mirror to look at me.

Words fall out of my mouth, "What kind of treatment? Where?"  She responds Atlanta, with a name I don't know for the chemo.  She is positive, in a restrained way.  They are fighting it again, but she is happy for my grandmother.  And hopeful, because the doctors are learning new things all the time.

"You are a sweetheart," she says and squeezes my hand.  She offers me a tissue but I take a paper towel from the dispenser.  She is a stranger who offered me a bit of her story and it's as if I can't bear to take more from her.  Except for one thing.

"How long, before it came back?" I ask.  That is the question.  How long until we are ripped up again? Before life stops?  Before I learn a new way of grieving again?

"Two years," she speaks quietly.  All I know to do is tell her she is beautiful.  The silver fox smiles and walks out.  Lips red, hair Helen Mirren white-silver, disappearing.  

Now it's clear.  Her beauty came from her pain.

As I fix my eyeliner and re-apply the mascara, I realize mine does too.


____________________________
This was written in February 2012.
As of today, my grandmother has been free from cancer for 19 months.

I would like to inform you, dear blog readers, that after waxing poetic last night on homemade birthday cakes and celebrating those you love, I went to my aunt and uncle's for lunch.  Really, it was to tell my cousin Morgan goodbye before she went back to college.

I walked in only to hear someone say, "You made it for the birthday luncheon!"

"Who's birthday is it?" I asked, confused.

"Clayton's," my grandfather replied.

"Geez. Thanks, Meredith," interjected my now 17 year-old cousin Clayton.

And there you have it.  I forgot my own flesh and blood's birthday.  I felt like the scum of the earth.  So what did I do?  After I apologized,  I iced his yellow cake with chocolate icing.

Tonight I needed to make a birthday cake for my friend Joyce.  Tomorrow we'll celebrate her 41st birthday...our sixth birthday together since she moved to the United States.  It's a little late; her birthday is actually documented as January 1st.  Some government official in Burundi put it down as an approximation, just like they did for thousands of other refugees who were not sure of their exact birth dates.

Sometime over the last few years, David (Joyce's now 11 year old son), decided he liked homemade birthday cakes better than the chilled Kroger variety.  There was a family consensus with this position.  Since then all birthday cakes for their family of nine have been generously prepped by my friend Duncan Hines* and decorated by a multitude of artists.  (The Kroger bakery is remarkably grateful.  There are only so many times that I can spell Z-E-B-E-D-A-Y-O before the baker writing it on the cake and I want to cut each other's throats.)  Tonight as I was slowly smoothing the icing on the 8" rounds, two-tiered for a change, I had an interesting thought.

In that moment, I felt genuinely sorry for any person who had never been given the opportunity to make a birthday cake for their friend.

Now, I'm not talking about the actually baking skills part.  I'm no Martha Stewart making it from scratch, nor am I an anti-processed food warrior pushing the complete Michael Pollan collection on you.  (As much as I loved The Omnivore's Dilemma, I may love a good Nutter Butter more.)  Heck, I won't even throw in some anthropological reference to American birthday rituals and familial traditions.

No, I just mean having people in your life that you love to celebrate -- people who love you even when their birthday cake looks like a third grade art project.

I can't begin to count how many boxes of Duncan Hines* cake mixes I've poured into a mixing bowl and added eggs, oil and water.  My cakes aren't one tenth as beautiful as my mom's; after all, her Wilson icing tip collection fills a whole linen closet.  Sometimes mine are surprising put-together in their appearance, other times I'm slightly embarrassed by an icing effort gone awry.  I've had what can only be described as "sweet" cakes made for me, lopsided in their love.  Nonetheless, here's what I realized:

If I measure my life in homemade birthday cakes, I am a rich woman indeed.  Each one represents a gift to me, loved ones I believe are special gifts from my Abba.  He knows their birth dates, even if sometimes they don't, just like He knew the exact date they'd walk in and enrich my life.  That is something to celebrate.

*I am loyal to Duncan Hines because my mother favors it; however, I do firmly believe there are just some occasions that call for a Pillsbury Funfetti cake.

We have this New Year tradition, my friends and I, where we choose a word we hope will embody the upcoming year.  It's shocking to me how long we've been doing this.  We start mulling it over about  the third week of December and our Christmas gatherings always include someone saying, "Start thinking about your word!"  It's a good exercise -- one of reflection and anticipation.  I'll catch you up from what I can remember.

2007 - Surprising  This was the year I quit my first nursing job and didn't know what the heck I was going to do.  I applied to be an intern with International Justice Mission, was rejected, and instead traveled to Afghanistan for a month.  That year I started volunteering at Christ Community Health Services and eventually got hired.  I met my refugee friends.  It was the year when nothing went according to plan and I learned that's a very good thing.  God's surprises are much more wonderful than my plans.      

2008 - Growth  Or something to that effect.  I moved out on my own, went on my first date, and shared life with a crew of Burundians.  I started growing up and growing into my own. 

2009 - Celebrate  This was the year when all of my close girlfriends read Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequiest and we were determined to sink our teeth into every day.  And for the most part, I think I did.  A quote from Shauna:

I don’t want to wait anymore. I choose to believe that there is nothing more sacred or profound than this day. I choose to believe that there may be a thousand big moments embedded in this day, waiting to be discovered like tiny shards of gold. The big moments are the daily, tiny moments of courage and forgiveness and hope that we grab on to and extend to one another.

2010 - Refreshing I was driving home from Washington DC on January 1, 2010 with three of my best friends when this word hit.  (We had cold-tangerined it up in DC for New Year's.  Or hot-nectarined, as we preferred.)  That year lived up to its word: my favorite vacation (ever) to Orcas Island, a trip to Afghanistan that made me feel alive again, teaching in my church.  There were so many new experiences that brought in fresh air to the quarter of my life.

2011 - Quiet  Oh, how I wanted this word to be true at the beginning of 2011.  2011 was quiet -- I believe I called it a quiet strangle.  It was the year that taught me how to grieve.  The year that taught me the presence of Christ in the very thick of suffering.  It also taught me how to lay fallow...and while I still have a lot to learn concerning that, it was a start.  I wouldn't trade 2011 for anything, but I was so glad when it was over.

2012 - Seek  At the beginning of 2012, I was ready for newness.  I had completed graduate school and thought I was ready for what was next.  I wanted to seek God more than anything, to find Him and find what He had for me.  Little did I know there was a lot of newness that needed to occur in my heart and within my perspective.  This lead me to move...four blocks away and dig deeper roots in this city.  I'm grateful.

And that brings me to 2013.  My word for this year is Victory.

vic·to·ry

noun 

1: the overcoming of an enemy or antagonist

2: achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties 

It means a lot to me at the moment.  I've been living in a pretty defeated cycle over the last few months and I need to believe that freedom is possible again.  I want to walk in it.  Sometimes I just step lightly around freedom, like I do a shallow puddle in cute shoes.  It's there and on me, but not enough to mark me.  This year, I want to trudge in freedom like snow up to my knees.  To have it slow me down, reflect, and be intentional with the way I live and where I'm going.  In order for this to happen, I have a simple prayer for this first day of the year.  

Spirit of God, bring victory over my constant enemy...myself.

What about you?  What's your word?

"Today is a difficult day."

That's what my friend Jamin said today when he opened the memorial service.  My friends Pete and Catherine buried their baby girl yesterday.  Today they celebrated her life.

Hope Spring was born with anencephaly, a disorder that prevented a large part of her brain and skull from developing while she was in the womb.  We found out in April of this year that Hope was sick.  Catherine chose to carry her and she grew for almost six more months until her birth at full term on September 21.  Hope lived for eight precious days.  Six of those were spent at her home in the Cove, a sweet community of friends in my city.

Today I sat again at Merton Avenue Baptist Church.  The last time I was there was several years ago, at Pete and Catherine's wedding.  Three years ago I never considered the possibility that I would sit at their daughter's funeral.  I would never have guessed that I would relish helping Catherine hang the laundry on the line in the backyard, watching her belly grow with Hope.  That I would get to help Catherine put her daughter Hannah to bed, singing to God with them and then asking Him to heal her baby sister.  When I attended their wedding so many years ago, I never knew that so much heartache was ahead for them.  So much pain and mystery and suffering.

Yet, some things have not changed.  Pete and Catherine have always lived vulnerably, exposed.  They are real about their emotions and their shortcomings.  They live with their eyes wide open, as well as their arms and their hearts.  They are sustained by the Spirit of God.  There is no other way to explain the peace they exude amidst deep, piercing heartache.  And sadly, this is not the only heartache they have known.  They care.  About the world, about the land, about the city, about their neighbors, about me.  They have large hearts and wide smiles that remind me that Jesus is indeed alive.

I wanted to share the letter that Pete wrote to his daughter, Hope.    

How is it possible that I have learned so much and gone to such a deeper place in my walk with God through the ministry of you, my daughter?  You were only here through a nine month pregnancy and outside the womb for 8 days.  Knowing that you would not survive, I hit many crossroads over this long hot summer.  Do I let my love grow for you despite knowing that it would not be fulfilled in this life?  Knowing that I would not see you grow up?  Somehow, despite myself, my love did grow for you in ways I could not understand or control.  It grew past wanting to terminate the pregnancy, it grew past wanting you to die quickly so that I would not have to suffer, it grew past hoping you would not be handicapped so I would not have to take care of you the rest of my life.  It grew, and grew, and grew to the point that I would have done anything to save you and still be able to hold you today and have a future with you here.  This love grew despite knowing that you would not be here long.  In other words, I experienced something of what God experiences for us--unconditional love.  Thank you, Hope Spring, for teaching me this.  Your legacy in my heart is deep and firm.  I am a little angry that you will not be walking in the woods with me and jealous that you are seeing the real woods and mountains that I long to see.  I promise that I will remember the lesson you leave me about true love and never forget the grip of your hand on mine.  

Love, 
Your Daddy

The gratitude board in Pete & Catherine's living room.  All who enter are invited to share.

It was a privilege to celebrate Hope's life today - her short life here and her eternal life in the Kingdom of Heaven.  Pete and Catherine have taught me more about faithfulness and sacrifice than I can comprehend tonight.  The British theologian Thomas Raitt wrote, "It is precisely those who know the death most painfully who can speak the hope most vigorously."  Yes, this is true of my friends.  May it also be true of me.

Tomorrow I will sign a bunch of papers that will say I own a house, but tonight I'm still a girl who loves her Midtown apartment.  

This is my first home.  I moved here in December of 2007, barely 22 years old.  I remember walking in the first time, scoping out the place: ten foot ceilings, crown molding to swoon over, hardwood floors that had witnessed years of activity.  I was in awe; my jaw dropped.  The sunroom had red tile and light cascaded in from three window-laden sides.  Of course, I'll take it. 

It's been five years and tonight all I can think to say is:

I grew up here.

These walls have burst open with joy.  They have silently held strong under pain.  They witnessed birthdays and baptisms and engagement parties.  There have been lavish dinners and lots of cereal.  Graduate school study sessions and church prayer meetings.  This is where I got picked up for my first date and where I had my first "define the relationship" conversation.  It's where I first heard my grandmother was sick and where I held my friend who was heartbroken.  This living room has seen miraculous reconciliation and gut-wrenching misunderstanding.  It has also been home to an ever-growing library.     

I lived with Brittany, who taught me how to be steadfast and love the nations relentlessly.  I lived with Maryam, who taught me the beauty of Iran and the sweetness of crossing cultures.  I lived with Karen, who taught me to look beneath the surface and face the truth.  I lived with myself and I learned to be still.

This is a special place.  When I think of all the prayers that have been prayed, the hopes voiced, the disappointments shared...I stand in awe that my home would have the privilege of bearing so much.  And I look towards my new home with joy because in the end I know what made this place special. 

It wasn't the hardwood floors or the sunroom or the ten foot ceilings.  It was the people who came in and opened their hearts.  Those who refused to pretend that everything was okay and those who couldn't contain their happiness.  Those who helped me face the day and those who helped me pick out what to wear.  Those who dreamt up capers and let shattered dreams go.  These people brought the Spirit of God with them and He made this place a home.  A home for the broken, for the vulnerable, for the hopeful and the confused.  A home for the generous, the naive, the wise and the fool.  A home for me, who has played all those roles and welcomed in my traveling companions.

Now to you, Angelus Street.  You have much to look forward to.

A fellow anthropologist sent me this video tonight...it goes along well with our recent themes.  Brene Brown is a qualitative researcher and storyteller.



Her follow-up talk is excellent as well.  It's entitled, "Listening to Shame."

My grandmother has a remarkable green thumb, particularly with flowers.  I suppose you could say she was destined for it; after all, her name is Daisy Rose.  Her rose garden is a simple, straw-ladden bed surrounded by wooden boundaries.  Nothing fancy, just functional.  The roses usually bloom twice a year, depending on that Spring frost that always comes.  I never intentionally come when the roses are in bloom.  Yet, somehow they bloom when I need an extra dose of beauty in my life.  They bloom when the words, "Let's get you some roses before you leave," couldn't sound any sweeter.

Although it is my grandmother's garden, it is generally my grandfather who goes out with his cutting knife to reap the bounty for me.

"There's a pretty one," he says.  He cuts the stem from the bush and within seconds, his blade skims the sides of the stem.  He breaks off the thorns and hands the flower to me for safekeeping.  "Be careful," he advises, "There still may be a few on there."

He handles each rose the same way.  A swift severing from the bush and the paring down of the stem.  The thorns fall to the ground.  While a few thorns still remain, I can hold the stems and the bouquet in my arms begins to grow.  I watch him do this over and over: finding a beautiful flower, cutting the stalk, skimming the prickly pieces, handing it over to me.  Then it becomes clear:


Isn't this always the role of the people who love us?  To help us grasp beauty and soften the pain that comes with it?  

So many people do this for me that I feel overwhelmed.  The hands and knife may take on different forms but all have the same result.

Sustaining me with a listening ear and a compassionate glance.
Thorns fall off.
Laughing boldly and contagiously in the midst of absurdity.
Thorns fall off.
Giving me permission to grieve and sit in uncertainty.
Thorns fall off.
Walking ahead of me, showing me how to live openly and honestly.
Thorns fall off.
Feeding me good food and serving a stiff drink.
Thorns fall off.
Writing down the encouragement that my ears don't always believe.
Thorns fall off.
Refusing hopelessness on my behalf and pouring out grace.
Thorns fall off.
Pointing out my own prickly pride and sanding it down by their loving presence.
Thorns fall off.
Praying for the weariness to abate until it does.
Thorns fall off.
Believing this one wild and precious life is worth living.
Thorns fall off.
Adding beauty to desolation with a small kindness.
Thorns fall off.
Taking the edge off the bitter and infusing it with sweet.
Thorns fall off.
Speaking Truth and reminding me of what is real.
Thorns fall off.


Sending me home with full arms and a full heart.
Thorns fall off.
 

  

This post is shared in conjunction with Rachel Held Evans' "A Week of Mutuality" by Meredith.  Rachel is devoting a series of blog posts to the discussion of an egalitarianism in the Church—including relevant biblical texts and practical applications.  Meredith is a part of Neighborhood Church in Memphis, a community that has chosen to empower all disciples in ministry regardless of gender.  Below are some thoughts she shared with her family there last year.  

A few months ago, our Leadership Team began to study the Scriptures related to women in ministry.  I wanted to come to the table and to these Scriptures with a clean slate and fresh eyes.  I’ve been studying these passages for a long time now and have experienced a variety of teaching on gender and ministry.  I never want my background to bias me as we continue to ask the Spirit to guide us into Truth.  I don’t want it to be personal.  But I have to acknowledge we all come to the table with our experiences and cultural background playing a part in how we interpret Scripture.  This is personal for me, and for you, although it’s taken me some time to accept that.  You might not need a story for why that’s true, but this is mine.

I have several distinct memories of my grandmother asking me what I wanted to be when I was a little girl, as young as age six.  She would say in her sweet Southern drawl, “Meredith, what you do you want to be when you grow up?” I would answer with something pretty tame (usually a librarian) to which she would reply, “OR you could be a Investment Banker OR you could be a Surgeon OR you could be an Attorney.”  Somehow my mother would always come on the scene at that exact moment and quietly counter, “OR she could be a missionary.”

From childhood I perceived that, as a female in the world, I could do anything.  No position of power or prestige was off limits to me.  I could be Secretary-General of the United Nations.  Yet, in the church the pool of options was severely limited.  Based on what I saw, I had three options.  First, I could be a missionary.  Second, I could be like Beth Moore, an amazing women’s Bible teacher.  (But let’s face it, even though I grew up in Texas I still can’t get my hair THAT big.)  Or the last option was to marry a minister, which remains to this day the most frightening path of the three. 

After years of this “what do you want to be” scenario, the only thing I really knew was that I loved Jesus and wanted everyone to know Him and love Him.  So I set the course of my life to be a missionary.  I packed up and went to a small Christian university where I could gain a practical skill and study the Bible.  I was so excited about taking those few Bible classes in nursing school.  I soaked them up and was jealous of other people that actually got to declare a major in Christian Studies.  Then, I took New Testament Survey.  My professor, whom I greatly respected, arrived at 1 Timothy 2 and made an absolute statement.  He said that Scripture was clear: There is no circumstance where a woman should be allowed to teach a group of men and women.  And technically, we can say that boys become men at age 13 so no woman should ever teach males over that age. 

This was the first time that I had been told this so explicitly.  I went back to my dorm room and cried because I had taught men in church over the age of 13 and I did not know it was wrong.  Even now as an adult I still remember I felt shame for communicating the love of Christ in a public setting.  I didn’t know if I should repent for wanting to talk about the glory of God.  I felt confused about when it was okay for me to speak up about the power and healing in the blood of Jesus.  That day I got out every translation of the Bible and every commentary I owned.  I began to study this issue, specifically of women teaching, and I learned not everyone interpreted the Scripture in the same way my professor did.  That day, I first realized this issue was personal for me.  I wish I could say it was the only time Scripture was wielded in such a way that I, as a female, was made to feel inferior or incapable in the Kingdom of God.  It was not.  I could tell you similar stories, both my own and those of my friends, but there's no need.  Instead, I’d just like you to think back to your childhood.

Do you remember as a child the joy that came from being invited to a birthday party at the pool?  I mean, remember when you were a really little kid and it wasn’t on your radar yet to be concerned about how you looked in a swimsuit or how well you could swim.  A pool party was the most amazing thing.  You showed up at the party, jumped into the pool and loved every moment swimming with your friends.  Then at some point, it was time to get out and celebrate.  You ate the most perfect ice cream cake, ice-cold watermelon, Capri Suns -- the richest of fare.  Then a mom declared you cannot get back in the pool for at least thirty minutes; it's dangerous to swim on a full stomach.  So you sat, for what felt like an eternity, on the edge of the pool with just your legs dangling in.  You were waiting for someone to say you’re free to do what you most want to do. 

         

Some days, this is what it feels like to be a woman in the church.  I am invited to the party.  I get to enjoy spending time with my friends and invite others to join us.  I get to sit at the banquet table and eat.  Yet at some point, I am told that I cannot get back in the pool.  Because I am female, I must sit on the side and wait.  Or perhaps I can wade into the shallow end with the kids, and maybe eventually the deep end--but there is absolutely no diving.  And why?  I am not allowed because I am a girl.  Frankly, it’s confusing.  But the truth is it’s my Father’s pool.  He says who gets to swim and He determines who participates in bringing the Kingdom of Heaven to earth.

         

Ironically, God gave me what you might call my life verse before I realized that it was culturally inappropriate for the Evangelical South.  It’s 1 Samuel 2:35.  At this point in the life of Israel, God says “For I will raise up for myself a faithful priest, who will do according to what is in my heart and my mind.  I will firmly establish his house, and he will minister before my anointed one always.”  This verse wrecks me every time I read it.  It confirms that regardless of my career path, my life is supposed to be about letting God raise me up to help people connect with Him -- whether they’re from Memphis, Burundi or Afghanistan.  And that means I have to be connected to Him and do what is on His heart and mind.  I want God to establish my life in Truth so that I will serve Jesus always, empowered by His Spirit.  And I have these desires...as a girl.  Honestly, everyone seems completely fine with me saying that if I only serve as a Registered Nurse.  It’s when we try to figure out what it actually looks like in the life of a local church that it gets messy and complicated and a hundred different voices choose to weigh in.

Amidst all of this, I can’t tell you what a privilege it is to be a part of a community unafraid to face the messy, complicated and hard things in Scripture.  Together, in Christ, we can be healed of all bitterness and resentment related to this particular issue as we take our own positions in grace and humility.  We do this because we realize that it is personal and it does matter.

It is Easter morning and the Sunrise Service at Overton Park starts at 6:30am. I set multiple alarms; I am not to be trusted in the morning. At 6:09 I crawl out of bed, brush my teeth and hair and don a fleece. I wait at the front storm door of my building. Sarah is coming to pick me up.

"Christ is risen!" she says when I get in the car.

"He is risen indeed!" I reply.

It is the Paschal greeting, the tradition of Christians for centuries to greet each other this way on Easter morning. My mother taught me when I was young and here with Sarah at 6:20am I remember she too is family.

We walk toward the Levitt Shell, an open venue in the central park of Memphis. I carry a blanket for us to sit on and my hot tea. It is a brisk morning and the sky still somber gray.

We are greeted by a man in a suit, offering a bulletin. The outdoor amphitheater is dotted with blankets and law chairs. Easter eggs on the great lawn. We spread out our blanket and wait.

It is an ecumenical service. The Presbyterians, the Episcopalians, the non-Southern Baptists and the Missionary Baptists are all waiting for the sun to rise together. Some in Sunday best, others look like they just unzipped a tent and came out to sit at the campfire. The Missionary Baptist choir is elegant in suits and heels. They fill the stage as if ready for Carnegie Hall. We are black and white, liturgical and charismatic on the lawn. We are one body.

A few from my church family sit on a blanket next to us. One is very small, happily eating Cheerios as she rests in a lap. There is Gospel sway and folk strumming, music for a slightly older crowd. Light breaks more and more.

Men and women ministers read prayers and the Resurrection story. Some in robes, others in plain clothes. The sermon is delivered by a gentle man and he tells us it okay to doubt. That yes, this Resurrection story does sound made up. But it is our hope, one we will commit to wrestle with. It is darkness turning to light, and Christ is present in both.

On the stage is the communion table. A silk patterned tablecloth hangs long and sacred. It is covered in cups and plates. Each church has brought its own to share, a potluck Eucharist. There are cups made of clay and fired in a kiln, others made of silver. Some are simple and brown, another blazing green. The plates of bread are piled in mounds. A silver tower of trays stacks tall. It is the passable dish of my childhood. I imagine the small juice shot glasses, each sitting in place like a deviled egg plate.

A woman minister breaks the bread, pours the wine. Her voice is clear and sure:

This is the body of Christ, broken for you.

This is the blood of Christ, shed for you.

Soon men and women, ministers by vocation and ministers by commitment, come surround the table. They take the elements and move toward the edges of the lawn in a horseshoe shape. The suits, the mountain gear, the old, the young, the black and the white. They move out in pairs - two by two - one with the bread and one with the juice. All who share in Christ's resurrection are welcome at this table made by two willing servants.

We rise from our blankets and our lawn chairs. We stand in line and wait for our turn to receive the mystery. I take a chunk of bread and dip it in the juice. I linger at the soaking, wanting to sop up as much grace blood as I can. In my mouth it is sweet. I am reminded of what Augustine wrote:

The Lord was made sweet to you because he liberated you. You had been bitter to yourself when you were occupied only with yourself. Drink the sweetness.

I drink the sweetness in the park with the people. I forget myself and I take it in. The robes and the jeans, the tow-headed children still in pajamas. We have come to celebrate the sweetness of the Resurrection, the mystery that seems too good to be true. But it is only good and true and we are one body, coming from darkness into a marvelous light.

Sometimes I'm slow to catch on to important things. For example, two weeks ago I decided that I would watch my first episode of 30Rock. This show has been on for six years and I'm just now smitten. I don't own any Adele but I saw a clip of her singing at the Grammy's and I thought, "Why haven't I been listening to her?" Worse, I cannot seem to make it through a U2 or Coldplay album and that seems to make me a failure in my generation.

I have not read The Hunger Games or Harry Potter. I never saw any Twilight movies beyond the first one. I recycled the wrong items through my curbside pick-up for years. I don't know how to put my front tire back on my bike after dismantling it for transport. Now I can't ride it because the brakes are blatantly untrustworthy. I have not watched KONY 2012 but now I really don't want to since the poor Invisible Children co-founder Jason Russell had a mental breakdown. I thought for years that the weatherman was saying the "windshield" was -10, not the wind chill. My mother called Tomato Soup by another name so that I would partake as a child. I was 16 when I realized that "Pink Soup" did not exist outside our home.

I was also one of the few remaining folks to realize that you can find absolutely anything on YouTube. For a long time I thought YouTube was just for America's Funniest Home Video rejects and music videos. But then I heard my friends talk about learning to use a straightener to curl their hair and my friend Joyce suggested I learn Swahili from Kulmansam. (He's a really great teacher. He even uses songs!) I became a late-bloomer in YouTube support.

Today I was was doing some thinking about this season and how I feel slow to catch on to what God is doing. I was reminded of the image of a Potter God forming a lump of clay into something beautiful. There are lots of passages of Scripture that use this metaphor, some intimidating while others are hopeful.

Isaiah 64:8

Yet you, LORD, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;

we are all the work of your hand.

Isaiah 29:16

You turn things upside down, as if the potter were thought to be like the clay! Shall what is formed say to the one who formed it, “You did not make me”? Can the pot say to thepotter, “You know nothing”?

Jeremiah 18:4

But the pot he was shaping from the clay was marred in his hands; so the potter formed it into another pot, shaping it as seemed best to him.

Romans 9: 20-21

Who in the world do you think you are to second-guess God? Do you for one moment suppose any of us knows enough to call God into question? Clay doesn't talk back to the fingers that mold it, saying, "Why did you shape me like this?" Isn't it obvious that a potter has a perfect right to shape one lump of clay into a vase for holding flowers and another into a pot for cooking beans?

As I began to really think about molding and potter's wheels, I needed a visual. So I went to my new friend, YouTube.

And I became obsessed with this potter from the UK and lost a good 60 minutes of my day. Maybe more. I lost track of time. Especially when I saw this one:

Watching these videos made me realize a few things I've been slow to catch on to: I may feel like things have been spinning out of control, but that's not reality. The truth is that there is an Artist with a plan for this lump of clay. He works gently or fiercely, depending on what is needed. He is patient and devoted, creative and skilled. The end piece will definitely serve a good purpose; however, the art of its molding is just as beautiful.

Exactly one year ago, I went for a walk in the park near my house. On that March 12 in 2011, I noticed something that I had somehow missed in the previous four years of Overton Park strolls: this bench.

There are many benches in Overton Park. Some are made of splintered wood and rusted iron, others gritty concrete; all are weathered but seemingly here for the long haul. Yet, this is the only bench with a heart on fire emblazoned on it's back.

I had been reading Luke 24 a lot that week. It's a story in the Bible that takes place after Jesus has been killed and come back to life from the dead. The disciples and the women that followed Jesus have just realized that His tomb is empty, only strips of linen remain within. They remember His words, "The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, be crucified and on the third day be raised again," yet remain astonished and confused. In verse 13 of that chapter, we find two of them on the road to Emmaus:

Now that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem. They were talking with each other about everything that had happened. As they talked and discussed these things with each other, Jesus himself came up and walked along with them; but they were kept from recognizing him.

He asked them, "What are you discussing together as you walk along?" They stood still, their faces downcast. One of them, named Cleopas, asked him, "Are you only a visitor to Jerusalem and do not know the things that have happened there in these days?"

"What things?" he asked.

"About Jesus of Nazareth," they replied. "He was a prophet, powerful in

word and deed before God and all people. The chief priests and our rulers handed him over to be sentenced to death, and they crucified him; but we had hoped that he was the one who was going to redeem Israel. And what is more, it is the third day since all this took place. In addition, some of our women amazed us. They went to the tomb early this morning but didn't find his body. They came and told us that they had seen a vision of angels, who said he was alive. Then some of our companions went to the tomb and found it just as the women had said, but him they did not see."

He said to them, "How foolish you are, and how slow of heart to believe all that the prophets have spoken! Did not the Christ have to suffer these things and then enter his glory?" And beginning with Moses and all the Prophets, he explained to them what was said in all the Scriptures concerning himself. As they approached the village to which they were going, Jesus acted as if he were going farther. But they urged him strongly, "Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over." So he went in to stay with them.

When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight. They asked each other, "Were not our hearts burning within us while he talked with us on the road and opened the Scripture to us?"

Were not our hearts burning within us? I love that phrase. And I loved my new bench with its blazing heart. So I asserted my only-child possessiveness and named it my "Road to Emmaus" bench. For the next six weeks, I would walk purposely over to park to think and pray and desperately ask for Jesus to make my heart aflame. No one was ever sitting there, it was always waiting for me. I learned more about the symbol of the Sacred Heart, the emblem spray-painted in black. The Sacred Heart represents the unmitigated love, compassion, and long-suffering of the heart of Christ towards humanity. It's blazing fire illustrates the transformative power of divine love. I needed to sit and be still, to have my eyes opened to what Divine Love was doing in the most painful year of my life.

And then, somewhere between April 20 (International Weed Day) and April 29 (Arbor Day), this happened:

In case you can't make out the writing on bottom, it says, "Plant a Tree. Smoke some weed." And I have no idea what those symbols to the left and right mean.

Yep. Desecrated.

I was disappointed to say the least, plotting late night vandalism with white spray paint in hand. But truthfully, over the next few months I avoided the eyesore. I didn't want to face it. In October, I went to the bench and sat down on the inscription. I was resigned to what happened. After all, ironically, it was happening to me. The Road to Emmaus had become dusty. And hot. And exhausting. My traveling companions were not who I thought they were. There was no where to to take a break. My heart was not on fire, it was broken. But Jesus keeps walking with me. Ever so slowly binding up my heart, He comforts and explains these things have to be. What has felt like the vandalism of my own heart over last year is really the transforming power of Divine Love. I looked up my journal entry from March 12, 2011. I pray it will be true of my heart today.

Thank you for how you reminded me of the Road to Emmaus when I saw the bench with the heart aflame. You reminded me that You are always near, wanting to walk beside me all along. And You do explain the Scriptures to me, although sometimes I don't see You until You are right here in the pain and suffering, breaking the bread and giving thanks. O Precious Jesus, I hear you say -- this is my body, broken for you. I know You died for this sin, too. You died for this idolization of a mere man, this discontent with the life I lead. So thank you. Thank you that this too is covered. Thank You that this too is forgiven and covered in grace blood. Abba, thank you for sending your Son. Spirit, thank you for setting my heart aflame. Repentance and the forgiveness of sins, this is why the Son of Man came to die. Please live alive in my heart. Please help me to stop and break bread here ... at this point of hope and despair, trust and bitterness. Here I give thanks for this part of the journey. Here I praise You for the dinner together, that You would even consider eating with me. Lord, I want to know You and see Your glory. It is not displayed in my striving. It is only displayed in my surrender.

I walked back to my bench today. It's still beautiful, even if it is a little more weathered. I suppose you could say it has more character.

Whatever you're story is, keep working.

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

Tuesday morning I noticed the banner on the way to work and my heart leapt inside of me.

BOOK SALE THIS WEEKEND

THURSDAY 5-7 PREVIEW SALE

FRIDAY AND SATURDAY 9-3

It's the Lewis Center Book Sale. Possibly my favorite Memphis event of the year. You know, minus Christmas and Easter and the Levitt Shell Fall Music Season. The problem was I worked Friday and my cousin is getting married on Saturday. It was possible, if I chanced it, that I could make it to the sale Saturday morning before the wedding.

But it wasn't a risk I was willing to take.

So I pulled in after work and forked over an extra $5 for the preview sale. You get a spaghetti dinner with that five dollars, and although I could have found some interesting dinner company, I skipped out in favor of the books.

I wandered for a good 45 minutes. And I do have rules, you know. I'm not completely without restraint. I am only allowed to purchase that which I can safely carry in my arms. Thankfully, I have long arms.

I love to wander in the sale. I love to hear the old people remark,

"I think I read that one a long time ago. I may have given it away."

"There are a lot of books in here, but I'm not sure I see one that I want."

"Now this might be the Schwarzkopf book I read. I read one of them. Now, that there is a good book."

A old black man with modern spectacles took my picture while I wasn't looking. My arms were heavy-laden with all the precariously placed finds and I had a fingertip on the spine of a biography. It's was about Ingrid Bergman. I looked up when I heard the winding. It was a real camera. With real film. He smiled big at me. Then someone said, "There's Eddie taking his pictures." To which he remarked, "Yep. I don't show folks my pictures though until after they've gotten developed. That's the way you're supposed to do it." And he continued snapping away.

I don't have an agenda with the book sale. I just pick up what looks interesting. Or what someone I love might find interesting. I'm not afraid of the books with what appears to be mold spots on the pages, but those won't do as gifts. I don't mind ugly covers at the book sale. I usually only read fiction upon recommendation. At the book sale, I notice the books I have heard are good but haven't had time to read. I may venture into uncharted territory if the author has "Pulitizer Prize Winner" next to the name. I know, I'm a snob.

In the end, it's one of the most therapeutic activities for me. The participants are together but separate. We are happy and contemplative. The spines face up in their rows of expectant pleasure, awaiting to be chosen. I walk out content.

Today's Finds

Ciao! - This beginner's Italian textbook (brand new! with audio cd!) will be a gift for my grandmother.

Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson - This woman wrote Gilead. I already know this will be a treasure.

Somebody Told Me by Rick Bragg - I love the way Rick Bragg writes and these are his favorite stories and essays. He had me at All Over But the Shoutin'.

The Maytrees by Annie Dillard - Annie Dillard is mysterious to me. I don't always understand what she says but I keep trying.

A Summons to Memphis by Peter Taylor - Of course, the title caught my eye. Then I saw that Peter Taylor is one of the great Souther Writers. Whenever someone is considered, "in the company of Eudora Welty," I'm in.

The Prophetic Imagination by Walter Brueggeman - I've never read any Brueggeman but he's a theologian that I always see quoted so I think it's about time. And it's about the Old Testament prophets. Win.

Freedom of Simplicity by Richard Foster - I'm hungry for that title. And Foster usually shows the way to get there.

Little Bee by Chris Cleave - I think I saw this at Alyssa's house? The cover is great. I judged by the cover. And it's brand new for 50 cents.

Thank You, Holy Spirit by Marilyn Hecksher - This book traces every mention of the Holy Spirit throughout the Bible and discusses the reference. Yes, I know that I'm weird.

The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid by Bill Bryson - my grandmother's dear friend, Inez, loves Bill Bryson. I texted her during the sale to see if she had read this and she hadn't. Score.

Four years ago this month, this skinny teenager entered my life. He was fifteen. And he only spoke Kirundi and French.

Even in this picture, he is noble.

I didn't know then that he would be put in French class in 9th grade for multiple periods because the school wasn't sure what to do with him. I didn't know that I would be livid.

I didn't know that I would go to his parent-teacher conferences and hear many a teacher remark on his pride and determination. That one time he would sit in on a conference and hear an ESL teacher tell his mother that he wasn't trying hard enough. I didn't know that he would get up and walk out in anger.

Four years ago I had no clue that I would give countless rides to the soccer field. He would somehow catch me before I left the house and ask, "Are you going by Hollywood on your way home?"

I would nervously leave him at the Binghampton field alone before others trickled in for a pick-up game. I'd eye his cleats in hand, towel across his shoulders. No water bottle or cell phone in sight.

"Will you be okay?" I'd ask.

"Me? I'm good," he always answered. And for some reason, I always believed him.

I didn't know that this boy would mean a Kingsbury High School Football Schedule would be posted on my refrigerator in the Fall and a Soccer Schedule up in the Spring. That I would learn more about football and soccer simply because I wanted to understand what position he played. And that I would take a ridiculous amount of blurry photos trying to capture him on the field. I didn't know that it would mean the world to me when he called to tell me his team won and he scored a goal.

I didn't know he would use his summer job money to buy athletic shoes for his siblings and a used big screen TV that didn't work. When he did get his own cell phone, I didn't know I would save his text messages because they would be both kind and funny. When he talked about going to Brazil to play soccer, I didn't know I would be encouraging. When he wanted to take his girlfriend to the Senior Prom, I didn't know that I would loan him the money for the tickets.

Four years ago I didn't know that this boy would make me realize I know nothing about teenage boys, except that I know to take up for them when they're misunderstood.

I didn't know that I would be so sad when he made poor decisions and so delighted when he made good ones.

I didn't know if he would graduate from high school, especially when he almost failed English. Four years ago I had no idea he would call and let me know he passed every Gateway graduation exam. I didn't know that I would get to see him walk across the dias and receive his diploma...the first in his family to obtain a degree in the United States.

I didn't know that I would be so nervous when he said he wanted to go to college and play Football. That I would be even more nervous when he said it was in Iowa. Or that I would sob when I thought he had to move there earlier than he really did.

Four years ago, I didn't know that he would write my parents a thank you note and say I was like his sister. I didn't know I would lie to him and say I didn't read it before I mailed it to them.

I didn't know that he would leave tomorrow for university. That his mother would be sad tonight and I would have to explain again that they will feed him and provide a place to wash his clothes. That she would ask if he should take rice to cook and keep saying, "This is the first time...far away."

I didn't know that I would tell him goodbye tonight. I didn't know that he would walk me out to my car, like he had done every night I left his family's home late, and tell me:

"Pray for me every day, Meredith. I want to do good. I want to make my family proud and I want to make your family proud."

Four years ago, I didn't know that I would be so proud of him. I didn't know he would be my brother.

Ninganza - Swahili for "God is a Warrior."

Some of my dearest friends in Memphis are a part of a family from Burundi. Burundi is a war-torn nation in East Africa nestled next to Rwanda. They are refugees, having endured the same genocide you perhaps saw in the movie Hotel Rwanda. A few weeks ago, I was riding in the car with the father of the family. Zebedayo is an intelligent man who worked in public health in his home country. When he moved to America four years ago, he knew two English phrases, "Welcome" and "God bless you." Within a few months he was able to obtain work as a custodian at the Memphis International Airport. He works five nights a week to support his family with a minimum wage check every two weeks. I love to see Zebedayo laugh because it is a hard-won chuckle, a laugh that comes from genuine delight. The pain of his past and the difficulty of his present make his laughter especially precious.

Few things make him smile more than his youngest daughter, Nuru. Nuru is four and a half years old. She moved to America at 7 months of age and has no recollection past the Highland Heights neighborhood in Memphis. Nuru is American; and, like most American children, she has grown up on a steady diet of the Disney Channel, Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network, and Qubo. To say she speaks English is an understatement. She drips her sentences in pre-teen sarcasm, makes jokes like an after-school special and wins your heart with spot-on karate kid impressions. She's brilliant and kind when she wants to be, but slightly unscrupulous. This summer she learned how to appropriately use, "sike." For instance, she'd say, "We're having chocolate ice cream for dinner...SIKE." Or, "Merry-death, I'm going to give you a million dollars...SIKE." She's pitch-perfect, that one. Whoever came up with that colloquialism would be quite proud.

A few weeks ago, Zebedayo and I were in the car coming back from the airpot. Sometimes we have a hard time making conversation; Nuru's vocabulary surpassed her father's a long time ago thanks to Drake and Josh. Also thanks to Drake and Josh, Nuru can sing every line of "Soul Man." Zebedayo and I do usually find something to talk about. This time it was about names.

In Burundian culture, the last name is chosen for a child just like a first name; therefore, there is no one family name. All of Zebedayo's children, and his wife, have different last names. These last names are chosen according to the father and mother's preference, and for Zebedayo's family, each name reflects a characteristic of God. Although I had asked the meaning of the names before, I wanted to get them straight this time. Of course, since I did not write them down, a few have escaped me. Zebedayo tried to translate them for me in English but his limited vocabulary didn't always have the capacity to be clear. When we came to his oldest son Wailes, he paused thoughtfully before he proceeded with the meaning.

"You know how Nuru, she say, SIKE sometimes?" he asked me. I nodded my head yes.

"Niyukuri means," he stalled again, "God --- He no say sike." He looked at me quizzically to see if I understood. I grinned.

"Yes, I understand. God tells the truth. God is true," I said and nodded in agreement.

"Yes, Merry-death. Today, you teach me. God is True," Zebedayo concluded.

"No, Zebedayo. You teach me. That is a good example. You are very smart," I told him. He laughed. I bottled it up.

I've been thinking about that interaction for a while now. God does not say sike. God does not say, "Gotcha!" He doesn't say, "Do this...J/K!" He always keeps His promises, He always leads purposely, He always brings Truth in the lies. He is not misleading nor does He joke at our expense. I am so grateful.

When you begin to question the next step and wonder if the risk is worth it, if the action really makes sense, or if God told you one thing only to really mean another...just remember:

"God --- He no say SIKE."

From urbandictionary.com: sike - The immediately preceding statement is false and was told to mislead.

"Do you mind if I turn some music on?"

I nod my head. Of course. His little hand reaches up from the passenger seat to adjust the tuning knob. He stops on a funky beat. It is black outside and the street lights have halos. I see his shadow next to me, his bulky hand-me-down jacket spilling out around the seatbelt straddling his 9 year-old frame.

"This song is good, " he says and starts to snap his fingers in rhythm. It is one of those songs from the TimeLife 70's Library infomercial. He's never heard it before in his life, but he likes the beat.

"Merry-Death," cries a little voice from the backseat, "David--he turn the radio on."

"Yes, Nuru. David turned on the radio, " I repeat. I glance in the rearview mirror to catch the toothy smile. "Is that okay?"

"Yes, Merry-Death." Nuru is four years old now. She talks a lot and makes profound statements like "balloons are for babies, not for brothers" in the middle of Dollar Tree. Her head is shaved bald, just as it would be were she still a little girl in Burundi.

We are driving home from church. David and Nuru have left Mrs. Kathy's refuge of paint and blocks and Bible stories in KidsPlace. Tonight was Nuru's first visit, David's second.

"I love that class," sighs David, "I'm serious. I love it more than school."

"Why do you love it?" I ask.

"Because, we get to have fun. We play and we make things and we hear about Jesus. And, Mrs. Kathy is so nice," David states matter-of-factly.

"So would you like to go back?" I inquire, fully knowing his response.

"LOVE too," he sing-songs.

"Nuru, do you want to go back to my church?" I call to pink and brown car-seat in the back.

"YES! We sing songs!" She shouts.

Suddenly, September starts to play on the radio. I love Earth, Wind and Fire with a sincere zeal. I can't put my finger on when it began or how long it's been, but few bands make me want to groove and not just dance.

"I love this song!" I shout and reach to turn up the volume.

Do you remember the 21st night of September?

Love was changing the mind of pretenders

while chasing the clouds away

I am singing along, loud and off key.

"How do you know this song?" asks David. "I like it so I know it," I say.

I start dancing in the driver's seat, waving my hands and rocking my shoulders. David starts snapping his fingers and lifting his arms.

"Air guitar!" I command. David rocks out with a blue steele pout.

"We need trumpets!" I shriek over the music blaring. He raises his hands parallel to mouth and plays an invisible instrument, complete with sound effects.

Hey hey hey,
Ba de ya - say do you remember
Ba de ya - dancing in September
Ba de ya - never was a cloudy day

We arrive at their street.

"We'll just have to go the long way home so we can finish dancing," I shout to David and pass it by. He nods back in agreement. Yes, dancing is more important.

"Merry-DEATH. MERRY-Death. This is not correct. You are not correct. My mama she is that way. Our house it is not here. Our house it is not on this street. Merry-Death!" Nuru panics from the back, as if the music has hypnotized me and made me forget how to find my second home.

"I know Nuru. We are just going to finish dancing and then go home. I promise we are going home soon," I calm her but still see her body arched towards the edge of her seat.

Ba duda, ba duda, ba duda, badu

David breaks out more instruments in the brass section. We turn the music up a little more. I shout the lyrics; he raises the roof with his hands in time with the ba duda's.

"Nuru, are you dancing?" David shouts back. His tone is stern, as if to say, "This is for you, too."

"Yes. I am dancing," She answers exasperatedly. I see little feet flopping from the carseat, up and down with the ba duda's. We crescendo towards the end, our voices more loud and harsh. David is bobbing his head and I am pressing this moment into my memory banks.

We make the block. I ease into the driveway. Our laughter is clear and unleashed. The song fades ba de-ya de-ya de-ya...

I turn off the ignition and smile to myself. This is the life.

May you celebrate and linger in the groove. May you take the long way home because the drive is sweet. May you see Jesus, not simply in the brick and mortar sanctuary, but in Earth, Wind and Fire.

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