Silence Is Golden

As you can see, I've been away. There is a strong temptation in me to (in polite terms) over-share about my life. In not so polite terms, it's called regurgitating all over people. And we all know how polite and helpful and welcome it is when it happens . . . So, I'm grateful God gave me enough wisdom to be silent as I have submitted myself to His higher ways (Isaiah 55.8-9).

Thank God for His ongoing sanctifying work in us--in me. My hope and desire for this blog is to bring attention to Him. So rather than writing about all the nitty-gritty details of my sinful life, I am after something far more edifying, which is telling the only Story that matters: how God redeems all my sin that--if left to my own devices--I would wallow in and even glorify.

No. No wallowing and no glorifying anything or anyone other than Jesus, "Who for the joy set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God" (Heb. 12.2).

And on each Sunday I will do so by reflecting on one of the hymns that formed and informed my theology, growing up in a little American Baptist Church in Iowa. I love those hymns. Not to the exclusion of today's worship music, but as a vital foundation for it. I love those hymns as the treasures they are, handed down these last hundreds of years. It isn't either-or, for me, but definitely both-and. And praise God that we can have it all to praise Him even more deeply!

Because a morning in which I can sing I Will Glory In My Redeemer and Blessed Assurance in the same service . . . well, I am always grateful for more ways to give glory to God!

You, too?

Blessed Assurance
Scripture: Hebrews 10.22

Blessèd assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

Refrain:
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior, all the day long;
This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior, all the day long.

Perfect submission, perfect delight,
Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;
Angels descending bring from above
Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

Refrain

Perfect submission, all is at rest
I in my Savior am happy and blest,
Watching and waiting, looking above,
Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.

Refrain

Words: Fanny Crosby (1873)



photo by Kïrsten M. Christianson

CAN Christmas Come Too Soon?

Every year it seems we all complain that the retailers are rushing the seasons, particularly when Christmas decorations come out before Halloween. I know I have groused and complained and had a bad attitude in the past.

A couple weeks ago, I found myself with a very critical spirit and I began complaining to someone about it all.

But yesterday, I had an EPHIPHANY. (Oh, this IowaGirl does love word play!)

If the retailers want to deck the halls early, before Thanksgiving–bring it on, I say! I mean, it’s not like I just love Halloween and hate besmirching it with those nasty Christmas decorations. And their decorations can’t MAKE me buy things. And it’s certainly not because we know that Jesus absolutely was born December 25th and that you are only supposed to celebrate a birthday on THE DAY of the birthday.

AND, it’s not like the world hasn’t tried to suck out every last drop of joy and meaning and presence out of the Christmas season with the politically correct “Happy Holidays” (C’mon. Does my saying Merry Christmas really *really* force you to think/believe/act differently?), disallowing anything even remotely religious from the public square (And that star on the top of the town square tree . . . is that so distracting that you can’t just enjoy others’ joy?), and sanitizing every last Christmas Carol that we sing at WINTER concerts.

And I don’t mean that last paragraph sarcastically. I really am so sad that this is how polarized our country has become: We can’t “Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud . . . Do not be conceited” (Romans 12).
So, my epiphany. I am going to enjoy this Christmas season every last minute this culture will let me do so. I say to the retailers, Bring on the Christmas Fanfare!
I am going to revel in the trees and ornaments, remembering that we gussy up because a Savior is coming . . .
I am going to appreciate any deals that the retailers are offering, knowing that they are as financially tight as the rest of us. I will offer a few words of encouragement and affirmation and hope that His love will ease their worries.

I am going to shop wisely, holding each loved one in mind, glad that the tradition of gift giving allows me the opportunity to commemorate the the gift I have been given of the birth, death, resurrection and anticipation of the return of Jesus.

I am going to, as Mike Mason calls it, “practice the presence of people”. I am going to step away from the computer and look into people’s eyes. His presence is *the* present He gave and gives, and I want to incarnate that gift to family, friends and strangers.

I am grateful that I live in a country where we can put up trees and say Merry Christmas and sing praise at the top of our lungs and I know that probably the worst that can happen is that I might get a little grief because I am not being sensitive enough to others’ beliefs and religions. But I won’t be beheaded or burned or stoned or shunned or thrown in a prison. I think that is worth a little joy and celebration.

This year, and every year, Christmas cannot come too soon! I have the perfect excuse/opportunity/invitation/joy of *sharing* why I celebrate Christmas and *inviting* others to the stable, where there is PLENTY of room. In fact, we want more people to squeeze in with us.

There is room in this economy, in this culture, in this climate, in this space, in my heart for an early Christmas!

I will enJOY this season and enJOY people and enJOY telling the great *Good News*: the *Gospel of Jesus Christ, the Messiah*!

Mary said it best:

“I’m bursting with God-news;
I’m dancing the song of my Savior God.
God took one good look at me, and look what happened—
I’m the most fortunate woman on earth!
What God has done for me will never be forgotten,
the God whose very name is holy, set apart from all others.
His mercy flows in wave after wave
on those who are in awe before him.
He bared his arm and showed his strength,
scattered the bluffing braggarts.
He knocked tyrants off their high horses,
pulled victims out of the mud.
The starving poor sat down to a banquet;
the callous rich were left out in the cold.
He embraced his chosen child, Israel;
he remembered and piled on the mercies, piled them high.
It’s exactly what he promised,
beginning with Abraham and right up to now.”
No. Christmas does not come one moment too soon. For any of us.
Merry Christmas, with Love!

And After the Last Word . . .

I have been meaning to write about the Tree Dedication for my Aunt June.  It has been hard to write about for several reasons.  I think the words I would use to describe the event are fraught and redemptive remembering.

The fraughtness of it was due to family dynamics, rainy weather, a room bursting with grief, and subplots to the ongoing narrative.  How can one rainy morning hold so much tension and pain and sadness?  How can a heart hold it all?

As I sat and listened to the class members share the story of how the memorial arboretum came to be, I was struck by the passion in each of their voices.  It seemed to me that what had started as a kind idea had become, for them, a way to grieve their own losses.  I knew that something special was happening in the room.

When their loved one’s name was called, the families were invited to stand up, introduce themselves, and share a little about their loved one.  I was amazed at how many family members of each honored classmate came to the memorial . . . Each late classmate had at least two people there and there were as many as eight family members.  Some had passed on quite recently while others had been gone for 30-plus years.  However, there was no difference in the passion and grief with which the family members spoke.

I thought about that for quite some time . . . for some of us, it had been many, many years since our loss.  Why had so many of us shown up with our families and our grief and our tears?

And I think I have it.  Or at least part of it, anyway.  It’s that word again:  Remember.

It was such a gift that the class remembered our loved ones.

You see, when June died, it was fresh for everyone.  Not just us, her family, but all of our friends who loved us and hated to see us grieve.  But then the months went by and the years went by and babies were born, other people died, friends moved away, and so it seemed that June was . . . forgotten.  And I didn’t feel comfortable saying, “Hey.  My aunt was murdered 20 years ago and did you know?  Did you remember that she existed?  She lived, she loved, she laughed, she was present!  Do you remember that someone is missing from my and my family’s lives?”

So for all these years, I spoke only with Grief about my lovely, vivacious Aunt June.  Grief remembered with me.  And Grief ushered us into Redemptive Remembering.

On a very rainy morning on July 4, 2009, the Iowa Falls High School Class of 1969 chose to remember.  And they chose to tell us that they remembered.  And they listened to our memories.  And they gifted us–and others to come–with a permanent place to remember.

I will remember that morning for as long as I live. I will remember that there will be no last word now, but many words as family and friends and visitors stand before that Juneberry tree and grieve and laugh and remember.

Talking to Grief

Ah, Grief, I should not treat you
like a homeless dog
who comes to the back door
for a crust, for a meatless bone.
I should trust you.

I should coax you
into the house and give you
your own corner,
a worn mat to lie on,
your own water dish.

You think I don’t know you’ve been living
under my porch.
You long for your real place to be readied
before winter comes. You need
your name,
your collar and tag. You need
the right to warn off intruders,
to consider
my house your own
and me your person
and yourself
my own dog.

(Denise Levertov)

The Last Word

Everything was happening in such a hurry!  Having just landed from Germany barely 10 days before my wedding, every minute counted.  I needed to . . . choose the flowers, finalize the music, help clean up the family farm (on which I was getting married), attend bridal showers, pick out a cake, get my wisdom teeth pulled . . .

 

So when I landed in Des Moines, I put off seeing my Aunt June (my dad’s sister) and her husband, Kim, because I was going to see them shortly.  I was anxious to see them.  I had stayed at their house the night before I left for Europe two years earlier and I had a lot to share!  June and Kim had been some of my biggest cheerleaders through the years and I did not want a hurried visit.

 I thought I was making every minute count, you see.

 On Thursday night, June 26, 1986, I was introducing my husband-to-be to some dear friends over dinner.  In the midst of the meal, the phone rang at their house and it was for me.  I took the receiver and heard my mom say, “Something has happened at June and Kim’s.  June is hurt.  Your father and I are headed down to Des Moines.  Go ahead and finish your dinner and visit, then come home.  I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

 I started to ask questions, but Mom cut me off:  “I don’t know anything.  Just enjoy the rest of your visit and then come home.  I love you.”

 It’s been 23 years and my heart is beating fast as I type this.

Twenty-three years ago we drove home and waited by the phone.  Sitting there, I decided to turn the television on and, no joke, when the screen came on, Kim and June’s house was on the screen, and there were police crawling all over it.  Police cars, an ambulance, neighbors . . . it was a scene of chaos.

 Some pretty woman was talking about a 35-year-old woman found stabbed in her home . . . Husband’s whereabouts were unknown . . . Not many details yet . . . “Victim’s identity not being released pending notification of next-of-kin.”  They had just notified me.

 I watched myself slide to the floor and heard a terrible sound come out of my mouth.  My fiancé grabbed hold of me and started to turn off the television, but I would not let him.  It was my only link to information . . . to June.

 A few moments later—or was it a lifetime?—the phone rang and it was my Aunt Julie (my mom’s sister).  “Kirs.  Your mom called.  June is dead.  Your folks are down there trying to figure it out.  Your mom will call as soon as she can.”

 “But what happened?  How can this be?”

 “That’s all I know.  I’ll call if I hear more.”

 I hung up the phone and looked around the living room.  I felt like I had stepped into a Dali painting.  It was all surreal.

 I started flipping channels.  Each station had its own special murder logo: a dagger, dripping with blood; the word MURDER, starting with a light red at the top and ending in deep red at the bottom; a knife with blood dripping off the blade. 

I waited.  Suddenly, those moments I was determined to make count just . . . stopped.

Twenty-three years ago today, my Aunt June was murdered by her husband, Kim.  He stabbed her five times in the heart and then left her on her kitchen floor. Their eight-year-old son found her bleeding to death when he went in to see if dinner was ready yet.  He ran back across the street to a neighbor’s home where his brothers, 11 and 7, were playing and told the neighbor about his mom.

It was a long night waiting to hear from my parents.  A long night to greet them as they finally got home.  A long weekend planning for a funeral—and a wedding.  A long week gathering details and trying to make sense of what could have happened in that house, between those two people. 

 It has been a long 23 years.  My family has never been the same.

We decided to go ahead and have the wedding.  June’s funeral was on Monday, June 30^th, and we were married on Saturday, July 5^th.  Kim’s parents came and brought the boys to the wedding.  We had been family for many years.  We had enjoyed many holidays, celebrations, and dinners together.  This was new territory.  There is really not a how-to book for this sort of thing . . . Emily Post didn’t include this situation in her book.

 

 So we all did the best we could.  We moved through the funeral.  We mourned June.  We welcomed family and friends coming in for the wedding.  We painted farm buildings and fences and each other.  I tried on my dress for the women.  We laid awake at night trying to figure out what we missed, how this happened, what June did not tell us.  CS Lewis said, “No one ever told me grief felt so much life fear.”  True words.  Fear moved into my heart and set up housekeeping.

 Kim was charged with first-degree murder.  He was offered and accepted a plea bargain of second-degree murder and a jail sentence of 50 years (of which he had to serve, and did serve, 10 years).  Custody of the three boys, after much negotiation, went to Kim’s parents, with the boys visiting June’s family—us—on weekends and holidays, etc.  Just like a divorce—the divorce that I wish Kim would have initiated rather than killing June.

 Over the ensuing years, my grandfather grew more and more bitter.  My grandmother entered a sort of . . . la-la land.  She had loved Kim a lot—we all had.  Eventually, they made contact and a kind of détente entered.  I say a “kind of détente” because I think it really was more a giving up for her.  It was too much work to feel all the emotions and live with all the questions.  We could not make sense of it and that is a hard place to live.  Cheap grace seems easier, at least at the time.

 The rest of us struggled in different ways.  My new husband and I went back to Europe.  June’s brothers and sister, and the in-laws, followed the legal process, grieved, raged, and resigned themselves to the reality that there was not going to be any real answers; at least, not answers that would be true enough or comforting enough to fill the void June had left.

 So for 23 years, Kim got the last word.  I hated that.  I hated that when we talked about June (which was sporadic because it was Just. So. Painful.), it always ended with the fact that she was murdered by her husband.  We lost two people we dearly loved.  All that was left were their three boys who were growing into young men and making their own lives, and a tombstone that we could visit. 

 Kim served his time and was released to start his life over.  The boys graduated from high school, college, and one from law school.  My dad’s eyes lost their twinkle and his hair seemed to gray overnight.  My grandpa died about 11 years ago and my grandmother one year ago.  The cousins were fairly distant with each other.  Sadness upon sadness.

 But this summer, we’ve been given a chance to have the last word. 

 Several years ago I was doing some googling and came upon June’s high school class website.  They had remembered her, and other classmates who had passed on, by posting pictures of them and saying a few words. 

 There on my screen beamed her beautiful face with her 1969 thick shiny bouffant hair, eyes that twinkled with mirth, and a smile that owned her face!  June, alive!  Words that come to mind are vibrant, ebullient, laughing, earthy, flirty, passionate, passionate about her children, contemplative, real . . . a woman who knew she had made mistakes and was determined to live beyond them.

 I e-mailed the class representative and thanked her for remembering June.  I expressed how much it meant that I had come across the site to see them remember her . . . to know it was not just her family who missed her.  Linda Goodenberger Pierce sent back a lovely note and thus began an e-mail friendship I have enjoyed.

 Several months ago Linda let me know that the Class of 1969 had decided that during their 40^th reunion they would plant a tree at Calkins Nature Center  in Iowa Falls as a memorial to June and their other classmates who had died.  She wondered if I could provide addresses to family and friends who might want to know and receive an invitation. 

 The news hit me with some emotional force, but it took me some time to figure out why.  As I corresponded with Linda about the dedication and the boys and June, I realized that it was an opportunity for each of us in the family had been invited to have the last word and to choose what our last word would be regarding June. 

 Roger Ebert says “Resentment is letting someone live in your mind rent-free.”  I would amend it to say it is allowing someone to live in your being rent-free.  I think my grandparents, in pretty different ways, let Kim and the murder inhabit their being.  They are gone now and I trust them to God.

 In the Bible, God spoke everything into being: 

 “God spoke: “Earth, green up! Grow all varieties
      of seed-bearing plants,
   Every sort of fruit-bearing tree.”
      And there it was.
   Earth produced green seed-bearing plants,
      all varieties,
   And fruit-bearing trees of all sorts.
      God saw that it was good.”  (Genesis 1, The Message)

 He created—and creates—by his Word.  Words matter.  They have the power to destroy and they have the power to heal.

 On this July 4^th, at 10a at Calkins Nature Center, a tree—growing strong and tall and beautiful—will be planted as a lasting testimony of a life God spoke into being.  God created June for his pleasure.  She was a gift to our family. 

And so from now on, when I speak of June I will speak words that I hope will help create a new story of healing and connection for our family.  I hope to break the silence and speak June’s name—with some grief, but with so much more joy and love.  I will speak about her life and tell stories about the woman I was privileged to have in my life. 

 By that tree, I will tell her sons of their ebullient, vibrant, passionate, giggly, fun-loving, cool, delightful mom who delighted in every single thing about them.  I will remind them of how wanted they were and how enjoyed they were and how much joy she took in relating the stories of their adventures and exploits.  I will let them know how fun it was to listen to and watch her recount their successes and not-so-successful successes! 

 And even when we are gone, that tree will still be there.  My son, my brother and his children, and my cousins’ children, and their children’s children, and so on, will be able to go see a tree that was planted and dedicated to the memory of a woman who loved life, loved her family, and especially loved her boys.

 By God’s grace, we will have the last Word:

“I heard a voice thunder from the Throne: “Look! Look! God has moved into the neighborhood, making his home with men and women! They’re his people, he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes. Death is gone for good—tears gone, crying gone, pain gone—all the first order of things gone.” The Enthroned continued, “Look! I’m making everything new. Write it all down—each word dependable and accurate.”

 Then he said, “It’s happened. I’m A to Z. I’m the Beginning, I’m the Conclusion. From Water-of-Life Well I give freely to the thirsty. Conquerors inherit all this. I’ll be God to them, they’ll be sons and daughters to me.” (Revelations 21, The Message)

All I Ever Needed to Know in Life I Learned in Covenant Players

As I approach 45, I find myself looking back at what is–if I am very fortunate–the first half of my life (Who knows?  Maybe it is the first three-quarters? ).  I have had an extraordinary life.  If I had died last year, which the doctors told me was entirely possible–although things look good now–the joys, adventures, blessings, gifts would have far, far, far exceeded the regrets.  If I ponder what lies beneath that last sentence for any length of time, it takes my breath away.  In truth, the word extraordinary doesn’t begin to name these almost-45 years.

My time in an international Christian repertory theater company, Covenant Players, although only five years, makes up a significant number of the experiences that are extraodinary.  Getting to tour and perform on three continents in three languages for thousands and thousands of people . . . well, how can I even give you a taste of how deeply that shaped who I am today?

On Facebook, people with whom I toured or served while in the company, as well as people who went before and after me, have found each other and we are (re)connecting.  I think it is because we understand what it was to live out of a van with three or four other people for 10 months of the year, learning and performing at least 200 new roles during that time and performing hundreds of times, and living on very little money while feeling very rich.  And also because in that environment, you tend to bond quickly and deeply.  There is one woman who served in Covenant Players about 10 years before I did, Andie Casey, who I have gotten to know through Facebook and we can’t wait to meet face-to-face.  We know each other because we share a foundational and unique experience.

Alright, the above was a long introduction to what is below, which is a questionnaire that some former Covenant Player put together and has been dropped on all of us.  I can’t tell you how much fun it has been to read others’ responses!  I held off filling it out because it felt overwhelming, and because some answers are experiences shared with my ex-husband–”we stories” that I am still trying to figure out how to tell because “we” aren’t a “we” anymore.  But the other day, I sat down and just started typing.  It has brought back memories, put some things into perspective, and reminded me of who I am.  

A lot of people in my present life don’t even know I was involved in Covenant Players.  Others knew vaguely, but it was so hazy that it just got a faint smile when I mentioned something about it.  I am amazed, still, that even my family has never really asked about what my experiences were on the road.  And maybe that is as it should be; I don’t know.  I just know that when someone else has done something so unique, I could sit and listen to stories all day long. 

However, there have been peole that have asked and I have tried to give some idea of the diverse opportunities and crazy situations and the miracles that made up these five years.  With this questionnaire, I think I was given the right questions to make a more robust response.

And so, with all that set-up, context, and introduction . . . my responses to the questionnaire “All I Ever Needed to Know in Life I Learned in Covenant Players!”

NAME: Kirsten (Chaplin Rucquoi) Christianson

Year(s) served? 83-88

Favorite Area: I had favorites for different reasons, but here goes:

1 Black Gold (Nigeria Cameroon), 1987

2 Catalyst Europe (Military on the Continent, Great Britain & Ireland, with special love for N. Ireland/Ireland!!), 1985

3 Catalyst 5 (let’s see . . . IN, OH, MI, VA, WV, MD, PA, DC and I think one more?), but this is a favorite more for my unit rather than the geographical area: Christina, Brad, Allen Bartley and Annika Linander (Oh Annnika!  Where are you!!?)

Top 5 Favorite Plays:

1 Not By Me

2 The Night is for Hiding & Glorious Day

3 The Couch & Unto the Least of These

4 The Western in which communion is served . . . indescribable

5 Proxy . . . Proxy, Proxy, Proxy! 

Five I loved to perform:  Name of the Game (although as far as I am concerned, Kapp and Linda Brown did it the very, very best!); Legacy (any role); Turnabout (am I remembering that title correctly?); 4′ 8.5″; and honestly, Search.  What an amazing play.  Really.

And for the record, LOVED these plays but HATED to perform them:  Anybody Know the Way (my Waterloo!); Concentration (a spur AND a burr for me!); et Fantastique (I can’t even remember the English title!)! Bah!

Most Memorable Miracle Story: I think my whole time in CP was a miracle . . . Sometimes when I am in a grocery store doing the mundane shopping I will stop and think, “I used to travel around the world and perform these amazingly Spirit-filled plays and live on people’s offerings and see God change people’s (inluding my) lives . . . And now here I am in MN upset that I can’t find my favorite kind of microwave popcorn!” 

Also, I think it is a miracle that Gary Barcus didn’t drive up to Far West and kill me when I called him from the road to tell him that I had backed into a brand new Ferrari (without the required backer) and that the Ferrari hood was now melded to the engine.  Although I heard a few choice words while he intook some breath, he was nothing but sweetness to me. 

Story: Marc Rucquoi, Emma Dowman and I were in Nigeria in our #$%&! VW van that we had to hammer on the alternator to get started each! and! every! time!  We were in the midst of this village when all of a sudden this group of about 30 villagers came out with masks and swords and machetes and in tribal paint and clothing.  (Now, remember I was VERY YOUNG–and forget that Anita Mix had SPECIFICALLY WARNED AGAINST DOING THIS in her most-helpful letter she left us.)  I felt a Kodak  moment come on and took out  my camera to capture this amazing spectacle on camera.  ALL. HELL. BROKE. LOOSE!!  They surrounded our van, beating on it, trying to reach into the open windows, and trying to open the doors, screaming, gesturing, etc., etc., etc.  Emma was in the back seat yelling, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”  Marc shouted, “Lock the door!  Emma!!!  Lock your door!”  “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”  Hands reached in and tore off my watch and tried to get the camera. 

We were mobbed and I knew we were going to die right there and we hadn’t telexed the office where we were in the last few days.  Doomed.

Somehow, Marc gunned the engine and we broke away!  Freedom!

But no.  Out of nowhere one of the men with a two-foot two-sided mask on his head dashed in front of the van!  Marc slammed on the brakes.  The man slowly turned so the scary side of the mask faced us and he pointed his sabers at us while he started chanting something.  The others started screaming and surrounding the van (and thus us) again.

“Jesus!  Jesus!  Jesus!”  I joined Emma.

Suddenly another one of the men who had been beating on our van began screaming AT THE OTHERS, including Scary Two-Face and swinging his saber at them, chasing them away from our van.  Then he turned to Marc and yelled, “Go now!  Go now!  Go now!”

We went NOW at Warp Speed and utterly silent.

Five minutes later, without looking at me Marc barked: “I hope like HELL that picture turns out!”

I feel that God intervened.  All kidding aside, we were in serious danger.

Did you get married in CP? Yes.  Yes I did. And very sadly, I got divorced after CP.

Favorite CMT quote: (from a play)  This is one off the top of my head.  I would have to dig through showcase notes to remember lines that really IMPACTED me.  “I’ve looked at the signs!  They all say, ‘This is the way’ and point in completely different directions.” (Hope I haven’t paraphrased it!)

Favorite CMT quote: (general speech)  Was made to me on a phone call when he was letting me know that while he would love to send me to Ireland (my request), he needed Marc in France and if we were married, then he needed me in France, too.  My favorite quote is at the end, which is when I knew I had been finessed:

CMT:  So you  see, Dear, Pam (the other French unit leader) and Marc are needed in France.  If you are really going to marry Marc, then I need you in France, too.  After you go to France, THEN  you can go to Ireland.

ME:  But Chuck, I don’t speak French. 

CMT:  When I was over there a couple years ago, I was amazed at how much of my French came back to me!

ME:  But Chuck, I don’t have any French to come back!  I’ve never even HAD French!  I’ve had three years of German and two years of Spanish.  But no French!

CMT:  You’re a smart girl; I know you will pick it right up!

Note:  I toured in French-speaking Europe for 18 months, living and performing in French.  I wouldn’t say I  picked it “right up”, but I did learn French and for the opportunity and the faith in me, I am so grateful to Chuck and the people who toured with me!  C’etait formidable!

Favorite Life Series: RAF, hands down.  Chase’s singlet kept me from ever looking at Scott Hamilton in the same way again!!

Most embarrassing stage moment: I was doing a footballer (think Charlie Brown and Lucy with the football) with Kerry Brooks at a very upscale Congregational church in Connecticut.  It was a dinner theater booking.  We were performing on a full stage and it was the requisite 4′ off the ground.  I pulled away the “football” and stood up to deliver my Cleo line.  However, as I stood up my heel came down on my skirt AND my slip and thus keeping them down around my ankles.  So I was standing in front of 300 upper-class Congregationalists in my blouse, panty hose and underwear, with an invisible football. 

Kerry rolled over and covered his face, guffawing.  The audience gasped.  I threw the football over my shoulder and ran off stage.  Kerry followed, poked his head back out and said, “That was for free!”

Brought down the house.

Most unusual experience: Every! Single! Day! in Nigeria.  I woke up each day thinking, “I wonder what will happen today!”  I ate goat with the skin and fur on; I watched a “doctor” throw a baby chicken into a pit of alligators to see what God had to say (while people who were “possessed” walked around us with manacles and chains on their ankles and wrists); I continued on with plays while bats flew overhead and rats skittered across the dirt floor . . . And also, performing in this church in Virginia that had spent an unGodly amount of money on a stained glass window that they would unveil to a timpani roll at the beginning of their Sunday telecast . . .

Ten Things I learned in CP:

1 That I had an accent.(Hey, I’m from Iowa!  Who knew bathroom was just a two-syllable word?)

2 How to grease the nipples of a Ford transit van (thanks to Marc; it’s how he courted me!)

3 Pentecostals and Catholics are Christians too!

4 How to work HARD and play HARD (Thank you, Ruth-Angela Norman!)

5 To learn lines, own lines and perform in other languages (and to project, pivot, own lines, eye-to-eye contact, etc.)

6 I could do far more than I believed, thanks first to God and second to CMT’s trust and the opportunities he gave me!

7 The difference between what God requires and what are just my preferences (learned whilst living with other people and them sharing what it is like to live with me!)

8 How weak and selfish and prideful I can be (especially learned while I was unit leading)

9 How to affirm people

10 The reality of Jesus Christ

And all of this is just the tip of the iceberg! 

So there is a thumbnail sketch of five years of my life . . . and that doesn’t even cover the time that the Salinas Police Department held guns on our unit and made us raise our hands in the air when someone called in that we had a gun–which was a TOY GUN we were using in a play we were rehearsing! . . . or the time Vaughn Drumm and I hitchhiked with two Turkish men when we broke down in Belgium in the middle of winter in the middle of the night, and we, along with the rest of our unit, ended up at a Greek restaurant owned by two Greek Communists . . . or the time we performed Proxy, a play in which a guy has climbed up on a ledge and is going to jump when a woman walks by and finds she can’t just ignore him, and an audience member came up and told us that he had been planning to kill himself later that night but the play reminded him that he was not alone and he was going to go talk to the pastor . . . and several journals-full more. 

Yes, these last 45 years have been exquisite!

New Posts

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The Myth of Divorce & Facebook as God's Scalpel

"There are those who believe it is simple selfishness that leads people to divorce;

for those of us who have lived it, it's hard to see why anyone would

rip out their veins for some immature or narcissistic desire

to get what they want, because that is what [divorce] feels like."

Wendy Swallow in Breaking Apart

It wasn't that I didn't know divorce was gut-wrenching, horrifying, difficult . . . fill in the blank. My mom had been divorced. I have family members who have been divorced. I have friends, too many to stop and count, who have been divorced. It was always before me as I packed up possessions, met with a lawyer, called friends to tell them, and did the never-ending tasks that make up divorce.

Still, the day I pulled out the eight boxes of photographs (this was before digital cameras were common), sat down, and sorted through hundreds--if not thousands--of pictures was the day that I understood a new truth: the divorce was merely a legal instrument, a nod from the state that said, "Yes. We hear that you have come to a place at which you believe that this relationshp is untenable. We will no longer hold you responsible for each other in any way. We won't think about you as a set anymore. Go your own ways and forget this ever happened."

But sitting on that floor surrounded by 17 years of recorded life, I got it: the divorce that people want--that I wanted--was really a myth. There is no forgetting. I could cut my ex-husband out of the photograph, but I could not excise him from the memory of the moment. Even now, I could more elegantly Photoshop him out of the pictures of my time touring with Covenant Players, but there was no splitting the shared memories, or the shared relationships.

Over the last eight years, the myth has been underscored again and again. A marriage is made up of at least a thousand connections (even when the most important and intimate connections have been broken). Friendships, family, experiences, books read, travel, dreams, places lived . . . I could go on and on and on and on and on.

The pictures weren't just of him and me; they had others in them. Who gets cut out of the picture? Who leaves the friendship?

Shared experiences are intimate connections. Take our dear close friend who died while we were married. Her death was an agonizing blow for both of us. We had toured with her for a year. She was thisclose to us. Every year on the anniversary of her death and of her birth, I mourn quietly. There is only one other person in this world who knows my particular loss, who understands why I can barely breathe two days of the year. I can explain it to my (present) husband, but he didn't know her and he simply can't fully grasp the grief.

Nor is there a way to cover over the loss of relationship with my ex-husband's mother and brother, whom I loved dearly and miss in a way I cannot articulate. She was my mom, he was my brother. And it's worse than if they had died, because I know that they are just half a continent away, living, breathing, and yet they might as well be on the moon. I miss them just about every day.

Wendy Swallow, in Breaking Apart, states that "As a fantasy, divorce has a lot to recommend it. A good divorce fantasy can feel like an open window in a life otherwise shuttered in on itself. It can comfort a heart stinging from marital strife . . . Most people, though, will tell you that divorce is a nightmare rather than a fantasy. Many, in fact, will tell you it is the American nightmare of the late twentieth century. And in may ways they are right."

Why am I writing all of this? Am I regretting my divorce? Did I make a mistake by divorcing my ex-husband?

I am writing this because Facebook brought me, well, us, to another juncture at which I have been confronted with the myth yet again. Just about daily.

But to back up one step: No, I don't regret my divorce. I do regret the sin on both of our parts that led us to that specious place. I hate that what God put together someone did put asunder, including the two of us. Dan Allender, in Intimate Allies, puts it succinctly: "Our only option in all encounters is to glorify or to degrade." My first marriage was more about the latter and less about the former.

I am grateful for my present husband and for the healing and redemption I have found in my second marriage. But make no mistake: God has used this second marriage to show me where I had deceived myself in my first marriage. The sinful behaviors that I used to blame on the ex-husband are still with me, even though he is not. I am keenly aware (as God has revealed thus far) of where I failed/fell down/sinned. And I am flinchingly grateful that God will continue to reveal my heart to me as I live in this second marriage.

Back to Facebook. My ex-husband has a profile. How do I know? Because every time he friends or is friended by one of my friends, I get an update: "Ex-Husband is now friends with Good Friend!" Yippee! Skippy! Yea!

At first, this sent me reeling. I felt intruded upon and very proprietary of my friends. This was my turf! Hadn't I divorced him so that I wouldn't have to think about him, see him, know his movements . . . so I could pretend he didn't exist? It's not that I bore him malice; I actually wanted good for him and desired a certain reconciliation. Earlier this year, when going through a serious medical issue, I had very much wished that I could speak with him and apologize for the things God had brought to light.

And those desires were still there, just . . . at a distance (cue Bette Midler).

Ah, but there he is. A real person. Alive. Friends with my friends. Enjoying Facebook. And again I am Faced(!) with the reality that divorce is a myth: our two lives are joined by those thousands of connections that were formed throughout 17 years.

In the past month as I have watched the Facebook Status Updates, I have become aware of a question--perhaps a call?--from God: What would redemption do to the myth? What would redemption even look like between two people who used to be one and now they aren't, but who have the memories of being one? And memories of putting the oneness asunder?

As the status updates have continued, I have found myself beginning to prayerfully reflect upon each friendship that is shared, the story that is of a fabric. I am grateful that just because the marriage died doesn't mean that those thousand connections died--for either one of us. I ponder my first marriage a little and ask God to continue to show me the unfaced-sin in my own heart.

I realize that Facebook offers an opportunity to turn the myth on its head. As I take joy in the longevity and richness of all those shared connections (over 50 and counting!) and I continue to ask God to "Search me, O God, and know my heart: try me, and know my thoughts: And see if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting" (Ps. 139.23-24), I am more divorced than I have ever been. What I held onto was the selfishness (my friends, my turf) and the anger ("I will cut him out of the pictures!") and the old story of a dead marriage ("I refuse to remember him; he is dead to me.").

God is a Redeemer. Redemption is the story of the Bible, told and retold and being retold now. We are a people of the Book. I am called to live out the Gospel, to repent and beg mercy and "forgive and cancel debts and love boldly" (Allender). It is good to hunger for reconciliation and to be open to what it might look like in this cyber-rich twenty-first century.

What's it looking like is that Facebook gives me an opportunity to remember my first marriage and husband in a new way, as one for whom much, much, much has been forgiven and given back and made new.

It is a taste--the briefest, most subtly-exquisite taste--of heaven: repentance, forgiveness, reconciliation, fellowship, worship of the Redeemer. When all myths die at the feet of Reality.

Dear Thaddeus Evan:

I think I didn't write this on your birthday because I am trying to deny that you are really growing up. Every cliche about the time flying and you growing so fast, etc., is true. I have enjoyed every day, every stage that has led us to your fourth birthday. You are the most loveable sinner I have ever known!

This year you have matured a lot. Some of it was natural progression and some of it was forced on you. You graduated to big-boy underpants--and you did it in under two weeks. I am forever grateful to the book Everyone Poops which made pooping on the potty so much fun for you!

You also relinquished your binkies (the four that you slept with plus the six that you kept in various areas of our house). I say relinquished instead of gave up because there was no giving on your part. It was not your idea, nor a good idea to your way of thinking. However, once we explained that other children needed your binkies, you reluctantly consented to send them to those poor needy urchins.

This summer you made friends with the pool. The first few weeks you wouldn't move off the steps of Uncle Matt and Auntie Bea's pool. But one afternoon, when Auntie Julie was in the pool watching you while I was at an appointment, she coaxed you off the steps and there was no looking back for you! Auntie Julie is an expert at getting people to do things they don't know they want to do!!

You became a fish and it became impossible to get you out of the pool! With your water wings on, you paddled merrily all over the pool with "large Superman" (who is actually all of three inches high) in one hand and a water rocket in the other. Auntie Julie's next task is to get you to simply shake the water out of your eyes when you are splashed, rather than insisting on going to the edge of the pool and wiping your eyes with a towel! Next year.

As you read this years from now, Thad, you probably willl think, "Large Superman? Three inches high?" Large Superman has been your security blanket, rarely leaving your hand. In fact, you were so attached that we got a spare on ebay incase Large Superman ever flew away. Your love of Superman has only grown over the last two years. This year you insisted on a Superman costume again AND a Superman-themed birthday party.

You also have matured relationally. You revel in your cousins and when all of you are together you are a tribe. You adore Eliza and you look up to Andy. You are learning to share and to hold your own. You also enjoy Bible study childcare--there are six boys in the room and by the time I come pick you up, you are spent!

You are growing intellectually, too! You love preschool and I couldn't have been prouder at the parent-teacher conference. You are a sponge and very curious: why, why, why to the seventh level down. And I am simply not smart enough to explain the physics and trigonometry behind it all. So I give the best answer I have: "Let's ask Daddy when he gets home; I'm sure he knows!"

You know your ABCs (now that you have just recently decided to allow L into the alphabet). You can count to 30 two times out of five attempts: you don't like 14 and 15 and you don't like me forcing them on you! You have decided you want to be called Thad and I am convinced it's because you don't want to learn to write Thaddeus. But you write Thad really well and you take pride in signing your name. Tonight you brought a bag of marshmallows to me on which you had "written" something. You translated for me: "I love Dad and I love Mama, and I love Thaddeus and we have Christianson love."

One of your weaknesses is that you are a budding perfectionist. You often will balk at doing something until you know you can do it perfectly, and you are hard on yourself when something you do isn't up to your standards. So when an A doesn't meet perfectly at the top, you will cross it out and say, "I didn't do it right!" Daddy and I are working at making sure we ease up on ourselves so you don't get the idea that perfection is the goal.

You also have a temper! I would love to say I don't know where it comes from, but I know myself too well. Daddy and I have tried to gather wise counsel and also read and re-read Love and Logic Magic for Early Childhood. We are so pleased wth the progress you have made in handling your anger. We have stressed to you that it is okay to feel anger and to express it in ways that don't hurt yourself or others. You have really caught on well.

We have had an interesting year. I had several small strokes and a surgical procedure to repair a dissecting carotid aneurysm. The week that I was in the hospital was the first time that you and I hadn't slept in the same house since you were born. We were so fortunate to have Uncle Matt and Auntie Bea close by, and you just rolled with the crisis and bedded down with them quite nicely! We both survived the separation and are probably better for it!

You also are going to church and Sunday School and enjoy Sunday School a lot. I am so thrilled at the Biblical education you are getting. My deepest, fondest, most passionate dream/prayer/desire for you is that you know God, know His love for you and are passionate to love others out of His love. I believe knowing His word is the surest foundation for my dream for you being realized. You are conversant about God and Jesus, and often will talk about Jesus dying on the cross. You love Bible stories and will listen to 10 in a row at bedtime and still want more. Right now Samson has caught your fancy. You can't understand why he would let a girl get the best of him!

When you were still riding around in my tummy, I hoped that when you finally talked you would call me Mama. However, from the first time that you addressed me, it has been Mom. And of course, because it was you and said in your inimitable way, Mom was wonderful and I didn't give Mama another thought.Then, just after I came home from the hospital, you started calling me Mama. Just like that. And it is said with such affection and love, that it is . . . breathtaking. I thought maybe it would taper off, but it hasn't and it has been a wonderful gift to hear you call me Mama.

Along with my new name, you also have become very cuddily and love to, what you call, "snuggle-buggle-wuggle" with me. Several times a day you make sure to tell me that I am your best mama, that you love me so much . . . You rub your cheek on mine and pat my other cheek with your hand. It's heaven.

You ADORE your dad!!! The two of you have loads of fun adventuring together around the house and outside with swords and capes and pirate treasure and forts . . . You two have created a whole ongoing story about Captain T-Addeus and D-Daddeus with sidekicks Chaser the Dog, Superman, Batman, and LarryBoy. You wrestle, you chase, you play at the Man Store (Menards and Home Depot), you burp . . . . you glory in each other and your shared testosterone. It's a beautiful, gross thing to behold!

You also are getting into jokes. Like any toddler-preschooler, your made-up jokes put you into hysterics while Daddy and I are grinning at your silliness. You are starting to get the humor of some jokes and your favorite is "Why does the chicken cross the road?" and "Why did the elephant paint his toenails purple?" You also like a good knock-knock joke and again, make them up at your whim!

On a day-to-day level, you are simply delightful and a joy. You are witty, funny, active, imaginative (you carry on whole conversations with yourself and imaginary friends), and creative. You love playing what Auntie Shannon and Uncle Dude used to call "People". Superheroes, stuffed animals, pencils, Little People all become characters in your elaborate play. It is common for you to command Daddy or me: "Make LarryBoy talk! Make Large Superman talk!" Daddy is better at this than me!!!

You love to make art and enjoy painting, coloring, drawing on any kind of paper that is around. I have made an art wall for you and you take real pride in putting up your artwork. As the collection has grown, you enjoy rearranging what will be on top and what needs some touch-up work.

You are 39.5" tall and you hover at 35 pounds. You have loooonnnngggg legs. Your eyes are a lovely hazel that favor green, particularly when you wear green (which I stock your wardrobe with!). Your hair is a dark blond right now and unfortuntely, you got your mama's pale complexion! You also drew the short stick and have your daddy's allergies and so you take Zyrtec and Nasonex every day, something that you remind me daily is boring and that you don't like. Although I ask if you want to pick out your clothes, you usually tell me to do it.

In short, you are a gift from God! A week doesn't go by that Dad and I don't look at each other and express how great you are, how blessed we are, and wonderful God is to have given you to us. You inspire us to be better people, better lovers of God and each other, better parents. There is a saying that to have a child is to have your heart go walking around outside your body and that is so profoundly true. I get sick to my stomach when I think of harm coming to you, from others or from me. I so want you to be able to be safe and yet I know the call for me is to prepare you to be God's man in whatever situation.

Lately we have been talking about your name and I told you again what it meant: brave and kindhearted. You are both of those things and I pray you will grow into the fullness of what God defines those terms to be. You are well on your way, all thanks to God.

Thaddeus, Thad: I love you so much. Thank you for four wonderful years. I look forward to the next year . . . and pray it goes SLOWLY!

All my love,

Mama

Need

Pete and I have an ongoing conversation with TEWC about the difference between want and need, which is a conversation we also have with ourselves. TEWC pretty much gets it and I have been proud of him when we have been in his second home, our local Target, and he tells me he wants something "but I don't need it, Mama."

I enjoy gifts. I equally enjoy giving to getting, but make no mistake: I love getting gifts. It is probably my primary love language. I am not sure how it developed in me, but I just know that when I get a gift, it can be very small, I feel loved by the giver. So it follows that need and want get very mixed up for me.

Trying to sort it out is like trying to untangle the knot of electronics cords beneath your desk. It is time consuming. It takes patience. It can seem hopeless if you know you can't get rid of any of the wires and are pretty much convinced that in six months you will be under the desk untangling it all again.

The unending floods in Iowa and the devastating tornados in Parkersburg, IA and Hugo, MN (yes, one-half mile from where we live) have brought home to me, again, how important it is to hold onto things very loosely. Because they can easily just float away.

If, twenty minutes after the tornado siren sounded, I stood up in my basement and looked around to see most of my house and its contents strewn as far away as a couple miles, what would I search for first?

If I was standing behind a wall of sandbags that ring my house and the water came up to the second bag from the top, what would I evacuate first (after my family)?

What do I need? What is most important? Where do I find my core identity and feeling of eternal security?

"Lament for the Maker" by Joe Scanlan

an updated version of

"Lament for the Makaris"

by William Dunbar

I who was full of health and gladness,

Am troubled now with great sickness,

And feebled by infirmity—

Fear of death unsettles me.

Our pleasure here is all vain glory,

This false world is transitory,

The flesh is porous, and Fate is sly—

Fear of death unsettles me.

The state of man does change and vary,

Now sound, now sick, now blithe, now sorry,

Now dancing and merry, now like to die—

Fear of death unsettles me.

***

Unto the end we'll scrutinize,

The blooming of forsythias,

In admirable absurdity—

Fear of death unsettles me.

And since we'll devote all our years,

To making things that disappear,

We'll have no use for this frail plea:

Fear of death unsettles me.

Fear of death unsettles me.

Fear of death unsettles me.

http://www.thingsthatfall.com/lament.php