belief

This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.

 — Luke 2:12

A sign. That’s all we ask for. A sign that this craziness we call Christianity is for real and that we can trust it. That we can trust it with our hearts, with our lives, with our children’s lives. That it’s safe to believe in a God who loves us enough to come and share that love in the only way that matters: heart to heart.

And that’s exactly what we believe God has done for us in Jesus Christ.

Does it sound hard to believe? Maybe. But what is love, if not the reason of belief in the unbelievable? Do we believe ourselves so unworthy of love and happiness that we sabotage anything good that comes our way by relying too much on our heads, and not enough on our hearts?

While I was looking out the window this morning, I noticed a man carrying a sign near the bus stop. Curious, I reached for my bioptic to read what was so important to him that he would walk back and forth in the pouring rain.

The sign read, “I believe in angels.” 

And that made me wonder what that sign is saying to us.

To me, it points to our desire to set aside for a moment the stone-faced, scientific view of the world, and see things again through the eyes of a child. We long for eyes that'll see beyond what our minds say is possible to the realities we can know only with our hearts.

As believers, we recognize that the cold and calloused view of the world misses most of God’s subtlety. And He's nothing if not subtle. Take the Christmas story, for instance; it’s certainly evidence that God isn’t in the business of compelling faith through high drama.

The Lord doesn’t typically drop out of the sky and shout, “Here I am!” Instead, it’s more like the line in O Little Town of Bethlehem”

“How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given …”

It’s always up to us to decide whether we’re going to believe or not. Yes, God wants us to believe, but He never forces the issue. So God comes quietly, like the fog, as Carl Sandburg wrote, on little cat feet.

Some of that subtlety indeed went out the window in the skies outside Bethlehem. But give God a little room to work here: we are talking about the birth of the Savior of the World. It’s news that deserves all the pomp and circumstance God can muster.

But still, God’s sign to the shepherds wasn’t a whole choir of angels singing, it wasn’t the brightness of a hundred suns shining. It was a poor baby snoozing away in a manger — a baby the shepherds would have to seek and find for themselves.

Isn’t it just like God to say, “I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn. You go. You see. You test me to see whether all this is true.”

I have to give the shepherds credit. These were no great scholars, no holy men studied in the great prophecies of the Jewish faith. I’m sure none of them went around quoting scripture to one another. No, these were rough men, guys who knew what it was to sleep in the dust with wind clawing at their faces. After the angels left, they could’ve simply looked at each other and with a nod agreed never to talk about it again.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they obeyed and went to Bethlehem. They took off not walking, but running. They ran to see the sign that would confirm the truth of all they’d seen and heard. They ran to find their Savior, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger — a great big God, in the face of a tiny baby. This was their sign, the way God chose to let the shepherds in on the plan for the salvation of the world. That night, in the face of that baby, God became real to them, maybe for the first time in their whole weary lives.

I have to believe that when it happened, they were changed. They saw and believed and praised God — not just to each other, but to everyone they saw. And these men whom most people would dismiss as ignorant, dirty wanderers after sheep — the kind of folks who, when you saw them, would make you want to keep your wallet close — these men became the first outside of Mary and Joseph to know the truth about this baby, and the first to share it. God had given the shepherds a sign and made them a sign to others. The angels weren’t the ones singing God’s praises in the stable. Instead, God had left that to the shepherds.

So I wonder on this rainy morning, looking out the window to watch the man tell the world that he believes in angels: what’ll be your sign? What’ll it take for God, for Christ, to be real to you? We may not be able to go searching for the manger baby, but I do believe there’s evidence of Him to be found everywhere, if only we look with the right eyes.

I’ve heard it said, and I believe it, that the outward signs of God’s presence get fewer and fewer as we grow in our faith.  Most of the time now for me, the strongest sense I have of God’s presence is here, sitting in front of a screen as I reflect on the day's events and lives that have intersected with mine.

But then on my way outside to talk with the Amazon driver, I saw a single dandelion, almost level with the ground, flattened by the footprints of those who came and went. What business, I wondered, does a dandelion have growing in the middle of a parking lot?

I took it as God’s sign to me that this day, there’s life. I took it as my sign that there’s truth in the unbelievable, that there’s truth in Christ and all the Church has to say about Him. I took it as my sign that this day, there’s hope.

I’ve no idea what your sign will be. It may be small — maybe even smaller than my dandelion. But remember the Lord’s subtlety. Remember how a great big God became known to some shepherds in the face of a tiny baby.

Just keep your eyes open.

Sometimes all it takes is the courage to believe.

stars

There's something about the early evening light that makes everything look security-blanket-safe and jungle-wild all at once. I wish I could live inside it for a while. Dust specks are supposed to be insignificant, I think, but how perfect it would be just to float in a stream of light, buoyed by golden warmth, too small to cast a shadow yet touched everywhere all at once by something so pure.

I think you could be motionless and still dancing at the same time.

I almost am, watching.

no time to di

I’m going to apologize upfront about the tone of this post, because I, dear friends, am slightly peeved -– and the unlikely culprits who’ve put me in a mood are our friends from the United Kingdom.

Why, you ask?

Because they’ve included yours truly on an awful list. Well, not truly yours truly, but the name of yours truly.

You know what I mean.

Anyway, here’s the low-down: BabyCentre UK recently analyzed their data for babies born in the past sixty months and subsequently reported that Diane and Malcolm were the most unloved names of the year.

Yeah, let’s just marinate on that for a moment.

Are we supposed to just sit back and take this, especially from people who spell “Center” incorrectly?? I mean, c’mon!

So this little news nugget prompted me to put on my investigative persona and switch into full Private Di mode.

I’m not pleased with what I found.

Why, you ask again?

Well, it seems that the Americans, too, have been up to no good. The US Social Security Administration maintains its annual lists of the top 1000 baby names. Their collection goes back to 1900 (raw data extends back to 1880).

Well, whoop-de-doo. Welcome to the party.

What’s on these lists? Only every baby name ever bestowed upon a child, as long as it’s been given to at least five newborns in a given year.

And so, that’s how I validated those obnoxious British claims of Dianes (and Malcolms) being unloved. My fellow Dianes and I have, and I’m using their callous and hurtful words here, “fallen into relative obscurity.”

Ouch. And the dagger of shame digs a little deeper.

So in the name of fairness, I present to you, in no particular order (but with Diane at the top of this horrid list), the rest of the “Why on God’s green Earth would you ever give your child that stupid name?” list.

Enjoy. Unless you’re on it.

WOGGEWYEGYCTSN™ 2023 Edition

Diane.

Ethel. Seriously???

Katrina. They’ve lumped the Di’s in with a catastrophic weather event. Lovely.

Bertha. Bertha?? Really????

Isis. Does anyone even know an Isis? How is Diane even on a list with these people??

Gertrude. My eye’s beginning to twitch.

Ida. Good grief.

Caitlyn. Somebody better call Bruce.

Hortense. Is this even a real name?

Myrtle. I’m gonna need a drink.

Nanette. No, no.

Maude. This is ridiculous. I’m an old lady, and I’ve never met a Maude in my life.

There’s so much more I could write about the absurdity of the discourse, but I’ll spare you all the diatribe (see what I did there, BabyCentre UK?) and simply move on.

Oh, and Happy Mother’s Day to all you lovely women out there who care for the bodies and souls of others. You’re greatly loved and much appreciated by us all — even if you’re an Ethel.

‘merica

Oh public road. I say I am not afraid to leave you, and yet I love you. You express me better than I can express myself.

— Walt Whitman

When I was much younger, three friends and I got up one morning at 5am, packed the car, grabbed the camera and pillows, and set off on a three-week road trip in a thousands-mile-long oval across the United States. We drove, walked, and talked our way through places like Jackson Hole, Topeka, The Poconos, Morgantown, Scottsdale, St. Louis, Salt Lake City, and Reno. We flew past pancake-flat countryside, red, rolling desert hills, jagged snow-capped mountains, and vast concrete cityscapes.

I had a lot I wanted to say about that trip. It did so much for me, to me. I wanted to talk about the blistering, oppressive heat blowing across the Bonneville Flats. About the abandoned, eerily silent rest stop in eastern Nebraska. The dewy, thick-as-mud air I couldn’t escape from in West Virginia on our third-from-the-last morning of the trip. Watching cowboys herd cattle on horseback in New Mexico. Sticky molasses sunsets in Missouri. Tornadic storms in Wyoming, and again in Eastern Colorado. A Cadillac graveyard in Amarillo. Big horned sheep on the road outside of Denver, and three-hour traffic in Chicago. Fireworks over Des Moines, bright yellow sunflowers in southern Utah, and dynamic and massive explosions as Americans celebrated Independence Day. Sleeping under the stars at a rest stop near the Grand Canyon. Reading and writing and sketching through most of Ohio and Indiana, and standing in the middle of a long, empty desert road — yelling, waiting for my echo to come back — somewhere in Montana. Watching the clouds rotate from the windows of our cheap motel rooms. Long, slow breakfasts before the rest of the world was alive. Obscure, distant radio stations fighting the static in the middle of nowhere. Sailing on gas fumes until the next station seventeen miles ahead. Hail downpours and blinding sun and driving wind and still, dark nights. People and no people. Exhausted and alive. Driving nineteen hours straight through the night on the Loneliest Road in America. Jumping up and down on the side of the road at 2:17am somewhere in the guts of Nevada, trying to keep ourselves awake for the return trip home.

But in wanting to somehow say it more perfectly, I never said it at all. And so what you have here in front of you is all that’s left of it now, years later.

For several weeks, we searched for adventure and absorbed all God's glory in, on, and around the more than 4500 miles of country we covered between Ohio and Nevada. We breached thirteen states, eight or nine mountain ranges, and twelve major highways. We discussed politics, sports, terrorism, and life in general at countless diners, gas stations, rest areas, and dive bars. We made friends with a motorcycle gang in Indianapolis, crashed a wedding reception in Albuquerque, and spent an afternoon on an Arizona reservation belonging to the Pascua Yaqui tribe.

By the time we arrived back at my house, we were exhausted and exhilarated. We unpacked the car, grabbed some cold drinks from the refrigerator, and plopped on the sofa. After a ten-minute silence, the very first comment was, “So, when are we going again?"

thankful

I’ve just finished my Bible study. Carving out that time every day provides me a place of refuge and I’m thankful for the brief periods of respite it brings.

And so, in the spirit of His unyielding grace, I thought I’d take a few moments to do just that: be thankful.

I’m thankful for all the crazy children in my family, who’ve duct-taped strange objects to ceiling fans and played weird games and had loud jam sessions on the weekends, and who’ve filled my days with music and fun. For my friends who, because they love me, have eagerly accepted my noisy and intrusive family without hesitation.

I’m thankful for the kindness of strangers. For friends I’ve met near and far have forever changed my life. For snowflakes and lilacs and sunsets. For my siblings and their families. For weekend brunches, dance parties, Disney sing-alongs, and unexpected hugs and I love yous. 

I’m thankful for my college friends, my sorority sisters, my church friends, and my writing friends. For friends who know my faults, who see my vulnerable spots, and who love me despite them.

I’m thankful for the doctors and nurses who try to extend my vision and the friends who try to heal my soul. For those who give me a reason to fight, and the ones who permit me to rest in my weakness.

I’m thankful for the hills that hug me and the mountains that taught me how to navigate life. For Eastern Kentucky and coal mines and commitment to God and family. For Totz and Red Bud Hill. For Howards and Irvins and Cornetts and Gilberts.

I’m thankful for the ocean with its crashing waves and strong undertow that makes me feel small and humble in the light of God.

I’m thankful for the time I spent sitting with Dad and my daily check-ins with Mom. I’m thankful for making up silly stories and giggling with Polly, for long phone calls full of nonsense and laughter with Bruce, and for the many extended visits with Judy, where we’d laugh about nothing and talk about everything. I’m thankful for their unfailing love and support as they grew older and weaker.

I’m thankful for my nieces and nephews, whose energy and idealism give me hope for the future. For my aunts and uncles and cousins, whose visions of the world continue to challenge and influence me. For my poet friends, my artist friends, and my musician friends for how they nurture my creative spark.

I’m thankful for the technology that brings faraway friends and loved ones closer.

I’m thankful for the blindness that taught me how to see more clearly than some who are fully sighted, and for the disease that demonstrates the truth in the saying that life isn’t measured by the number of breaths you take, but by the moments that take your breath away.

I’m thankful for the moon that’s been a constant companion, and the stars that give me reason to dream.

I’m thankful for eyeglasses and books and puppies and wind chimes. I’m thankful for river birches and dark chocolate and great blue herons and sunrises.

I’m thankful to Jesus, for His gift of salvation and His undying love. I’m thankful for the knowledge that I will see my loved ones again, and that one day I’ll come face to face with the One who loves me like no other. I’m thankful for the opportunity to share my testimony, to assure the undecided that death has been undeniably defeated, and to walk humbly in the light of my Lord and Savior.

I’m thankful for the fire at the hearth, for the sunshine above my roof, and for the music in my ears.

And finally, yes, I’ll be forever thankful for all of you. Whether you realize it or not, you continue to be a part of my journey and you’ll always be etched firmly on my heart. 

Until next time, my friends. Be good to each other.