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Christmas and the Ancient Path

I stay home from church today and cough my way through the morning.  But I want to create my own Sabbath worship–to start the week fresh in peace–especially with so much to do to prepare for Christmas. 

I light candles and gather my Bible and a curious old journal that my students presented me on the last day of class. 

It’s an ancient journal, fresh out of Camelot or Narnia or Hogwarts.  The grainy pages connect with wisps of leather; the secrets within stay secure with a clasp.

I will record wise things here.  I will document revelations and promises–the whispers of God into my heart.  I will take His Hand and follow ancient paths that lead me to truth. 

As I unclasp my journal, I’m reminded of the words of that moody and artsy prophet Jeremiah.  He tells me:

This is what the LORD says:
   “Stand at the crossroads and look;
   ask for the ancient paths,
ask where the good way is, and walk in it,
   and you will find rest for your souls.” 

I open my journal and ask for the ancient paths.  And then I know.  I recall his name:  The Ancient of Days, God, the one who comes from the ancient into the modern, the one who descends down into a manger. 

That’s Christmas–the ancient path that leads from Bethlehem into my heart. 

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Becoming an Adult

Getting small children ready to play in the snow requires patience.  Change your agenda for the moment because this is going to take some time. 

My child wriggles into her snowsuit, and then reports that her jeans are bunched up by her knees.  I pull each pant leg down, digging up underneath her snowsuit and repositioning her clothing.

We’re almost there.  Boots on, coat zipped up, hat secured, she stands by the door with her hands up and fingers splayed  like she’s just been arrested.  She only needs her gloves.  She can hardly move within that bundle of snow gear, but still she manages to hand me two pink gloves.

Carefully, I hold the glove’s mouth open wide while she shoves each eager hand in. 

We try again and again.  Every finger has a slot–a place it belongs–and her task is to find it.  I can direct her and inch her fingers just so far, but she needs to navigate the dark cave alone, journeying up until everything’s in its place.  She’ll know when it feels right.  Nobody can know it but her. 

We try again, and this time, she’s figured it out.  I push open the door and stand to the side.  I send her into the bright, white snow, where all the other children play, and she doesn’t look back.

At some point (and it’s a different point for everybody), I became the glove holder and the door opener.  This is a good thing.  Living with flair means adopting–with flair–my adulthood.   It’s not just parenting.  It’s embracing adulthood for all its work for those who come after us.

I’m a glove holder and a door opener.  And then I sit back with my cup of coffee and watch with delight as children tumble down the hills–only a boot clinging to the sled.

Adulthood means I am more concerned with facilitating the joyous moment for others than I am living it for myself.  I give myself away to a new agenda, serving with the strength God provides, and mysteriously–miraculously–find the deepest joy.

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Write Like A Jellyfish

Today, one of my favorite on-line communities, The High Calling, features my flair for the day.  Enjoy the beginning of the post here, and please read more over at a great website that helps us deeply consider life, work, and faith. 

It’s the last day of the semester.

I smooth out a new page, unzip my red pencil case, and attempt–along with these college students–the art of writing with flair.   The rain outside transforms to ice.  We hear its tiny fingers pelt the window begging for entrance into this warm space. 

With my own pencil poised, I ask the question again:  “How do we get our own voices–the authentic ones deep within our hearts shared by no other living soul–onto the page?”  Lately, I’ve made my writing lessons all about voice. Early in my writing teacher career, I learned that high school and college writing instruction attempts to remove voice from writing.  Make it academic.  Make it sophisticated.  My students always, always ask me (in a timid, near whisper) if it’s OK for them to use the word, “I.” 

It’s like they’re trespassing, violating some rule.  If they put the voice back into their writing, somebody will cross out the sentence and send them back to their desk to imitate some other scholar’s prose.  The subtext: Don’t sound like you.  Sound like us.

But there’s something that only they can say, in only their way, in their own voice. 

What’s a voice in writing?  How do I get to it?   Read on. . .

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When Your Cat Looks Like a Skunk

My Skunk Kitty

When you’re sick in bed, you have a lot of time to think about your life.  You can have bizarre thoughts, brought on by fever and narcotics and the reality television shows you’ve been watching to pass the time. 

You start asking yourself if you’re dying, and you wonder what the whole point of life is anyway.  Then you start thinking you’ll never have another moment of flair again in your whole life.  You think that God has abandoned you and everything you thought was true is now untrue. 

You can’t remember any of God’s promises.  

And then your kitty comes up to snuggle with you, and she rolls over to show you the single white stripe on her belly.  She looks exactly like a skunk. 

But she’s not a skunk.  She’s a kitty.  She only looks like a skunk. 

What I see from this bed is not reality. 

There’s another system, another actuality, that God knows and God sees.  Good, beautiful, right, and true.  As warm and comforting as this cat beside me. 

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What You Have to Know

Typing Out My Flair

Yesterday, I receive a sweet email from a wonderful 5th grader in another part of the country.  She’s the amazing girl who owns her own business and announced, regarding her appearance, that “a face without freckles is like the sky without stars.”  Her story appeared in an August blog post

This email contains two questions for me to answer.  She has to know how long it takes me to blog and where I get my ideas.  Even though I want to get back to bed to recover from my cold, I can’t resist answering her.  Such curiosity!  Such interest in somebody else!  I feel honored to be that somebody else.  I respond and tell her I normally work on my blog for 30 minutes to 1 hour a day (I don’t have any more time than that!).  Then I tell her the great secret of living with flair:  I ask God in the shower every morning to show me the flair that day.  Then I start looking for the beautiful thing that reminds me of a spiritual truth that can help me live my life better.  It might be common; it might be small, but I can find it every day. 

Then, she asks me all about my Neighborhood Fitness Group because she wants to start her own.  I’m so impressed that I have to tell her everything–our dance music play list, our jumping jack challenge, our tendency to get rowdy and need adult supervision.  I even tell her about our Community Announcement time at the end when we talk about healthy eating and how to stay active in the winter.  

I imagine she will start her own group.  She’s a 5th grader who wants to help her community.

I finish typing and get back to bed.  I’m thinking about my own children and how I might raise them to have curious hearts, to take an interest in other people’s ideas and projects, and to launch their own neighborhood initiatives.  Being interviewed by a 5th grader reminds me that even children, especially children, live with flair that inspires me. 

I’m sure my freckled friend is on to other interviews today.  There are so many things she just has to know. 


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Latkes, Menorahs, and the French Phrase that Might Change Your Life

I have a student who already has a career in bread and pastries.  She’s a baker who works all through the night baking bread for local bakeries.  She’ll rise at 2:30 AM, work all night, and report to my 10:00 AM class covered in flour.  The smell of freshly baked bread precedes her and lingers when she departs. 

Last night, my baker student stops by to make potato latkes (pancakes) for my family.  She wants to share this special Hanukkah food tradition with us, and she even brings a Menorah to light at sundown.   As a Jewish daughter, she said the blessing as the candles were lit in her family, so she also proclaims the Hebrew blessing as a treat for my Christian family as the flames flicker.

But first, we make latkes!  She’s like a precision sportsman grating white and sweet potatoes with speed.  As my student cooks, I notice how organized and how peaceful she remains.  She carries on 3 different conversations, washes the dishes (and the floor!), and flips the latkes.  At no point is my kitchen disordered or dirty.  No stress, no worry. 

“This is amazing!” I remark. 

She looks over at me (while putting more latkes in the pan), and says, “Mise en place.” 

“Me za what?” I ask, laughing.

“It’s French for, ‘everything in its place’,” she teaches.  Apparently, every great baker knows this rule.  Before you start cooking anything, you enact mise en place.  You set everything up–all your ingredients, all your tools, all your supplies–for the entire project.  There’s no scurrying about and no energy wasted. Everything is exactly as you need it–mise en place

When the latkes finish, she turns them over onto a plate beside her, already lined with a paper towel–mise en place

When sundown falls like a grandmother’s shawl around our home, she has her candles and matches ready to light her Menorah.  Her Hebrew blessing is typed out in translation for us–mise en place

I serve Italian for dinner; my husband prays over our meal; we enjoy Jewish latkes as the candles burn down. 

But all night, mise en place resonates long after I should be sleeping.  Can I do that with my life?  Can I get everything ready–anticipating–so I offer spaces of peace and organization?  Those well-planned days are my best days.  No scurrying, no energy wasted.  I have everything I need right here before me.  Living with flair means mise en place

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Layer Up

On a cold day like today, with temperatures below 20 degrees and a wind chill that takes your breath away, I have no choice but to face my day with layers.  And I’m especially cold since I’ve barely recovered from my illness.

With tights, long johns, knee-high pink socks, black boots, wool skirt, wool sweater, wool jacket, hat, scarf, and mittens on, I walk around campus.  I’m cozy, tucked-in, secured like a newborn swaddled in quilts.

I’m actually a little warm.

Layering is the only way to survive the winter.  In fact, layering will always keep you warmer than a single heavy coat.  Layering acts like insulation on the body and slows the transfer of heat.  Heat trapped between clothing layers works as thermal insulation, and I stay warm all day. 

Layering my clothing to regulate body temperature made me seriously consider the concept of other forms of regulation.  Hasn’t my weight loss journey been about layering up my surroundings with good choices–veggies, then fruits, then whole grains, then lean proteins, then dairy?  Hasn’t my mood regulation been all about layering the day with good sleep, positive relationships, spiritual practices, and exercise?

I start the day, add layers of good things,  and eventually feel the warmth of thermal insulation protecting my mind and body from whatever comes against it.   Living with flair means I layer. 

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How to Be Sick with Flair

All night long, a fever rages, and I can’t keep warm no matter what I do.  I’m coughing so much that I actually lose my voice.  I can’t talk on the phone; I can’t boss my family around; I can’t even go to church and call out my welcomes. 

I try to get out of bed while everyone else is at church, but then I flop back down on the pillow.  I have no energy.  I’m suddenly amazed by how the body takes the energy it needs to get better and forces you to conserve it.  You stay in bed.  You don’t move.

I can’t stand the lack of productivity.  I actually devise a grand plan with my lost voice.  I can make a vow of silence and pray all day.  How godly!  But when I try to get my Bible and journal, I flop back down on the pillow once more.  Forget it.  I’m too weak.  

I’m worried about how in the world my husband got everybody ready for church and who handled all my responsibilities there.  And I’m worried about who’s cooking dinner. 

My family returns from church, and the girls bound into my room like little gazelles leaping about the bed.  Their outfits are adorable, and my husband has actually fixed their hair.  The youngest has the smoothest pony-tail , and their faces are clean and bright.   I can’t stop looking at that pony-tail.  For years my husband has announced, “I don’t do hair.  I’ll do everything else, but I can’t do hair.”

But he did it. I look again at that hair and realize how God provides, even down to the pony-tail.  And then a friend sends the message that she’s bringing hot soup.   I turn over in my blanket and realize my God-given assignment.  Stay in bed.  Don’t move.  

There’s nothing I can do, so, for once, I learn how to let God provide.

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Stencil Me In

Snowman Pancake

This morning, we invite some neighbors to join us for our Saturday Morning Pancakes.  My artistic neighbor sees the pancakes and immediately makes a homemade stencil so we can decorate them. We relax, drink coffee, and decorate snowman pancakes in the chaos of powdered sugar and syrup. 

So there we are, eating our art, and discussing such topics as multiple universes, our thoughts about God, and whether or not technology acts like an autonomous organism.  We have smart neighbors.  I love the kinds of conversations these neighbors inspire.  They can get a whole group talking and thinking. 

Meanwhile, I have a film student (who happens to be in my writing class) stopping by to take footage of our neighborhood fitness group for a promotional video about running.  Normally, the neighbors meet on Monday nights and walk to school every morning, but we have to reproduce a Saturday Morning Fitness Group for his video.  I call neighbors at the absolute last minute and tell them we are running around in my front yard.  Could they come by with their children–real quick–and help out my film student?  I know this is a little, you know, chaotic. 

They come.  Without question, they come.

And they welcome the chaos.  You have to–when you want to build authentic community–welcome some chaos, some last minute plans.  I’ve learned I need to make the space in my life for the possibility of last minute plans.  I need to schedule large blocks of nothing. 

As some of us finish our snowman pancakes and coffee, others gather in the front yard, and still others hang out in the living room. I haven’t even vacuumed yet.  Saturday cleaning day will now be Sunday cleaning day.  I overhear neighborhood plans to have a Giant Gingerbread House Making Party.  We don’t know when this will happen, and yes, it will be chaotic.  

But just send out the call.  We’ll come.  Without question, we’ll come.  

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Will Technology Destroy My Teaching?

This morning my daughter announces that her class is going on a field trip to the University Astronomy Lab.

Her personal favorite planet is Jupiter.

All day, I’ve been thinking about the wonder she’ll feel.  These planetarium shows, according to the website, “feature spectacular astronomical images from the surface of Mars, to dusty nebulae, to dazzling galaxies, rendered in three dimensions with the aid of special eyeglasses and projection screens.”

This kind of technology might just provide a sublime experience for these children.  They might go on to study astrophysics, probing deeper into the mysteries of the universe.

I wish I were there with her.

But I had my own experience with technology and education today.  I received my classroom assignment for next semester, so on my way back to the parking lot, I casually pop into my future classrooms.  One of them hides deep within an ancient campus building.  The tiny room has 25 chairs and desks and a long table up front (for me).  I’m not sure I even have a chalkboard to use in that room.  These are the rooms instructors beg to get switched.  They shed tears over these assignments and bribe administrative assistants to send them to any other classroom. 

But I love rooms like that.  I request the simplest classroom.  

The second classroom resides in a building I haven’t visited yet–the Business School.  I walk in, and I’m immediately transported to another universe.  A ticker on the wall brags out the stock market numbers.  Flat screen TV’s broadcast major network news.  Coffee shops send out an aroma that, in this environment, makes me feel rushed and nervous.  Everybody’s in suits, and the click of high heels on the floor breeds a strange insecurity in me.

I find my classroom.

It’s spectacular, dazzling.  Each wall has a projection screen, and I count no less than 7 white boards that light up for my notes.  My podium up front features more buttons than I could ever figure out what to do with.  It has a microphone. If I touch this one button, the lights dim and a huge screen descends behind me.

Maybe another button ushers in my avatar who teaches for me while I go get a latte.

The students’ seats swivel, and I’m not sure, but I wonder if each desk has its own laptop built in. 

I turn a circle in this future classroom, and then I immediately think:  “This is so . . . distracting!” 

What will I do with so much technology?  What could it inspire in folks trying to learn to use strong verbs and varied sentence structure?  Am I now putting on a show with lights and sounds? At what point does the technology distract rather than enrich?

I’ve posed the question to my technology-inundated students.  Shall I change my course?  One man leaned back (in his old desk) and said, “Don’t do it.  Don’t use the technology.  People want to talk about their ideas together in class.  That’s what they really want.”  

But is there something I’m missing? 

Living with flair means I figure out how to use technology in ways that enrich and offer sublime experiences.  Because it can.  I just don’t know how–as a writing teacher–it will.

Do you know?

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