Sending God to Sonic

Paying no attention to The Man behind the screen…

I think one of the things God must truly loathe about being God is all of the Sonic orders and WalMart lists He gets.

This occurred to me recently after I heard someone pose this question, “What do Calvinists pray for? Since they think everything is already set in stone, what in the world do they ask for?” While that’s interesting to ponder (what do Calvinists pray for, really? Since they believe His will is already ironclad, asking God to intercede in any given situation seems sort of silly.), it draws attention to the fact that most of us as Christians are still in our infancy. Our conversations with God have yet to evolve from “I need…I want…Give me…Bless me…”

Why do we think praying is only about asking for stuff? We’ve diminished speaking with God to the level of conversations we have at drive-thru windows or WalMart lines.

“Cookie. Now.”

Consider the evolution of relationships between parents and children: at first, little Johnny can’t speak mommy and daddy’s language at all. He just cries, coos, and grunts. Then, he discovers mommy and daddy can be manipulated with his pudgy little index finger and an ear-piercing scream. Mommy and daddy let that go on for about half a second if they’re smart, and then little Johnny learns his first word, the all-powerful “NO!” Even after little Johnny has full fluency in mommy and daddy’s native tongue (which comes from hearing them…), their conversations center largely around what Johnny wants, and when they’re going to get it for him. Johnny may love his folks, but that love is largely based on the fact that they provide for his needs, not because of the human attributes they possess.

But, Johnny grows up. And if he’s gained any wisdom or thoughtfulness, when that happens, he’ll see that his folks are people with layers. He’ll see they are people who struggle, fear, love, laugh, dream, create, and wonder. It will freak him out at first, but if he loves them, he’ll make the effort to work through that. And if Johnny loves them, he will want to know them for who they are, not for what they can do for him. In fact, Johnny will really be a man when he starts doing things that will please them, without them even having to ask, and when he begins talking to them about their lives, their hopes, their dreams and he finds he no longer needs to be the center of their universe, he’ll have the opportunity to have a real mature relationship with his parents. The bravery and honesty required to get to this place is nothing to gloss over. It’s huge.

Our relationship with God is sort of like that, but the analogy is off, because God is supposed to be father/friend/husband all at once, which is really a diffcult thing to get a handle on, especially when one gets out of the drive-thru line and looks in the window.

Prayer is a conversation, an exchange of thoughts and ideas, hurts, victories, struggles, griefs, dreams. It’s a deep meditation, a personal minefield, a terror, a quiet. At some point, the relationship should evolve past “Lord, please bless this food and my job and my family and help me win that bid on Ebay. Amen.” Intercessory prayer is a whole other level of prayer, and, then, there’s a very sacred personal level of prayer where there are no words at all.

Sometimes, though very rarely, because I’m still growing, and it takes time and a level of personal discipline I’m still far from, we just sit quietly together. No words. Just sitting still, considering in awesome wonder the worlds His hands have made. Then sings my soul…with His.

Thy power throughout the universe displayed….

 

The American Idol Conspiracy

Just got a phone call from Chelly. Because she’s brilliant, she’s realized something that should make all of us shudder from the pure abject evil of it:

There’s an American Idol Conspiracy.

It would appear those crazy kids at FOX are messing with fate. Like all of the best conspiracies, it’s hidden in plain sight, and you won’t even notice it until it’s too late, and then, BAM, just like that, your little life will be ruined.

We will not let them get away with this. We shall expose them, and then, we shall go to Walgreens. (It’s what we do.)

We know what you’ve done, you little weasel.

Now, personally, I think all of this was Ryan Seacrest’s idea. That little dude walks out looking all dapper and cute every darn week, for years and years, and years, and no one has asked him to sing a stinkin’ note. The dude’s pissed. He can warble as well as two or three of those people from the premiere episodes! Hollywood is such a cruel world. Really, I think the continual rejection just made the man snap. I’ve done some investigating, and here’s what happened: he walked right into the programming office at FOX while they were all trying to figure out how they were gonna compete with Game of Thrones and Homeland (there’s really only so much Kiefer Sutherland can do, you know), sat down innocuously at a keyboard in the Dilbert pit,typed a line or two with his perfect little manicured digits, hit enter, and set his devilish little plan into motion. Now who knows what’s gonna happen if we don’t get this mess straightened out.

What’d he do, you ask? Oh, I’ll tell you what he did. It’s diabolical. It’s dastardly. It’s messin’-with-the-fabric-of-the-universe-dangerous. It’s shameful. (Shame on you Ryan Seacrest. Shame.) Ryan Seacrest, you see, did something heinous.

It’s stuns me what they allow these people to wear in public, but let’s just solve one crisis at a time.

He changed the date of the show. I KNOW!! It comes on tonight instead of its rightful night-tomorrow. He really did it, didn’t he? It’s the final performance show, the last chance for Jessica and Phillip to dazzle and amaze us, the last chance for Randy to wax philosophical while wearing his mother’s tablecloth, the last chance for us to evaluate the Final Two. And he moved it, like Benjamin Linus moving the island. Un-freakin’-believable. You think you’re mad? Shoot. You should have heard Chelly! (It was bad. Actually, you may have heard her.) You woulda thought CBS had re-cast Sheldon Cooper!

We can’t let Seacrest win. I’m watching tonight. Who’s with me?

p.s. Phillip. That Jessica has pipes, but I think she’s an android. Anyone who can do this should win, period:

Potato Salad

So, you’re thinking ya wanna barbecue some ribs, maybe some burgers, or some chicken. You’re walking through the grocery willy-nilly, mindlessly putting Famous Dave’s Devil’s Spit BBQ sauce in your squeaky little cart (because you know What’s Good). You think, innocently enough, “What should we have with these delicious ribs?” You find yourself in the deli holding what from this moment on shall be referred to as The Abomination: grocery store potato salad.

Don’t do it. Put it down and walk away. That stuff ain’t potato salad. It’s Evil and Must Be Destroyed.

This is potato salad:

Potato Salad, loosely translated it means “Love.”

Real homemade potato salad is love: It’s simple and humble, but it takes effort and time and a commitment to using the best you have to make something that will fill up and comfort the people you love. There are no short cuts. Good potato salad is hard work, and that’s why so many people settle for the easy plastic encased monstrosity of a short cut that is grocery store deli potato salad. That potato salad sucks-it’s dry and unsatisfying, and leaves a bad taste in your mouth, like some kind of sleazy one-night stand. Real love, and real potato salad are worth everything you put into it. So, try. Even if you’re scared. You can make potato salad.

“Are you gonna make potato salad!?!”

To make homemade potato salad, gather the following:

• 8-10 potatoes of similar size, scrubbed clean and boiled in their skins until just fork-tender, about fifteen minutes. (Russetts are my preference: I like their density. Freshness is key.)
• 6-8 large eggs, boiled
• 1 large Vidalia or other sweet onion, chopped
• 4-6 stems very fresh fragrant celery, chopped. Be extremely picky about your celery. It’s like a man: don’t settle for anything approaching limpy or wimpy or weak.
• 8-10 whole dill pickles, chopped (all veggie amounts are approximate: just look in the bowl. You’l know when you’ve got enough. Potato salad is personal, like love. Everyone’s is a little different.) Also, keep that pickle juice handy.
• Hellman’s Mayonnaise (Only Hellman’s. Period. And if you even are thinking about substituting Miracle Whip, just go to the deli, buy The Abomination, and be done with it.)
• Emeril’s Kicked-Up Spicy Brown Mustard with Horseradish
• Hidden Valley Ranch Salad Dressing.
• Salt and Pepper

While your potatoes and eggs are boiling, chop the veggies and put them in the biggest bowl you’ve got. When the potatoes are done, drain them and let ‘em sit awhile and simmer down. When they’re cool enough to handle, peel the skin and chop into one-inch cubes. Add potatoes to the veggies. Cool, drain, peel, and chop your eggs. Add them to the mix. Mix everything in the bowl together to see if you need to add any more veggies. (I always add another pickle…that’s just how I roll.) Add some salt and pepper. Once you’re satisfied with the veggie to potato ratio, you can assemble the dressing.

In a smaller bowl, combine two cups of mayo, three quarters of a cup of ranch dressing, and about a third cup of mustard. Stir with a rubber spatula, slowly adding pickle juice until the dressing is the consistency of pancake batter. Pour over potato salad, and mix well. You  may need to make another batch of dressing-I usually do, but I always start with that first batch. Use your eyes, and taste it: you’ll know when it’s right.

Cover the bowl and refrigerate the salad for at least four hours. This is called Delayed Gratification, or Torture. But, real love is worth the wait, trust me.

A little bit a love…mmm
Squeeze and a little kiss,
Take a little time, yeah,
Make a little fuss….
a little bit a love….
-The Judds

Sunday on the Backslider’s Pew

I’m sitting outside on a white plastic chair under the hot Texas sun in a chocolate brown tank and a pair of old denim shorts. My feet are bare. The tomatoes, okra, and peppers are dripping with blessings and drops of water. The gardenia’s beautiful fragrance is very nearly a criminal assault. The mockingbirds are singing hymns. The sky is huge; the clouds are dancing waltzes with the sun, and the crepe myrtles are swaying and keeping time. The moss roses have opened to enjoy the morning. I can literally feel the warmth of the glory of God on my skin. I can see His mighty power: if I try to look at the sun, my eyes instantly well up with tears.

This is where I spend my Sunday mornings.

I no longer attend church. Most Sundays, I have the house to myself. I have come to greatly treasure my solitary Sundays. Many people think the willful rejection of the corporate worship setting is evidence of one’s decent from the lofty plane of Growing Believer to the slippery slope of Back-slidden Compromiser. Often, I heard this phrase from various pulpits, “I’ve never seen anyone grow as a Christian without regularly attending church.” And, then there was this, said (or perhaps yelled) with a shudder of fear, “If you only attend on Sunday morning, you’re just a service away from being Out of Church entirely!” For a faith that believes in the eternal security of the believer, this abject terror of missing church seems a bit silly.

Church is a wonderful place for most believers, but there’s a few with different needs.

It’s such an odd thing: baptists (of the “John Calvin Was An Agent of Satan” variety) believe Jesus is powerful enough to save and keep one’s eternal soul, but not powerful enough to influence thoughts or behavior or hold anyone’s attention anywhere accept inside the church building. For reasons I can’t fathom (that’s not true: I can, and so can you), fundamental preachers are certain no one can navigate their way through the muddy Jordan River of the Victorious Christian Life without them shouting instructions on how, when, with what frequency and with whom, why, and in which direction they should paddle their ship of faith.

It’s as though they’ve convinced themselves God is willfully mute unless He’s speaking through their amplifier-aided voices.

I used to buy into that line of thought. I thought every believer needed the accountability, the fellowship, the preaching, singing, and opportunities for service that regular church attendance provides. And, for many people, church attendance is a vital component of their personal walk with Christ and it provides all of those needful things. But, those things can also be obtained elsewhere.

Trying to grow…looking for the sun.

There are some people who get distracted from God while in the church boat. For some people, (and I am one-due to my own shortcomings, not the church’s) going to church brings out their worst. Sometimes, the crowd, the temptation to judge others and the constant comparing and contrasting become so loud in one’s own ears that they can not hear the still small voice of the All-powerful Almighty Living God at all. Often, He raises His voice to break through the din, and in our arrogance, we think He’s talking to the dude in front of us.

The Backslider’s Pew

Am I forsaking the assembling together of the believers? Yeah. But my spirit is sick, and I don’t want to spread the contagion. I need the intensive care unit-the silence of the Sunday morning backyard. The humility of this ugly plastic chair. I need the burning conviction from the sun. Will I ever decide to attend church again? I don’t know. I do know that church isn’t the only place I can assemble with other believers, and I think God recognizes that, too. I also know that I am growing, and re-learning how to lean on the Everlasting Arms. For now, I am just focused on trying to be honest with God. No show. No pretense. No audience.

Out here on the patio, I can hear Him whisper. His voice is calm, deep, and I have no doubt He’s speaking to me. There is no one else.

Yonder’s Some New Ericisms, Y’all…

The boy has recently decided he was placed on this planet to be a cowboy. He’s fascinated by all things even remotely cowboy-ish. His love for plaid shirts with snaps borders on the unhealthy, and he’s rarely seen these days without his cowboy hat and a stick of grass or a toothpick hanging outa his toothless little mouth. I’d tell him he’s cute, but he’d challenge me to pistols at dawn.

As is usually the case, he’s said some funny things since this obsession has taken hold:

(I was cooking, and realized I did not have all the necessary ingredients. Eric sauntered in…)
“Aww, crap,” I said, looking into the pantry.
Sighing deeply, Eric said, “Man, I wish I was allowed to say that.”

(Being a cowboy requires some supplies Eric recently realized he’s in need of. He brought his concerns promptly to me…)
“Hey mom, we need to git (he say “git” now-I’m so proud) me a cowboy vest, cowboy boots, a cowboy belt, and, oh yeah, a holster.”

(He walked in this morning in full cowboy regalia: plaid shirt with snaps, hat, toothpick, jeans, and with his thumbs firmly hooked into his belt loops, he announced…)
“I’m a law-er.” For those of you who don’t read phonetically written language well, he was attempting a southern version of “lawyer”, and, even more humorous is the fact that he meant “logger” because of this song:

Providing us with a little cowboy trivia, the youngster brandished his orange plastic six-shooters, and told us, “Cowboys shoot Indians, a little sum’n like this” POW! POW! POW!

You can call him “Hoss.”

I attempted to get the future Texas Ranger to focus on some book-learnin’, which he found unnecessary and tedious, being as there was scoundrels to chase and varmints to shoot. The following discussion was during spelling:
“What’s the next word, Eric?”
“Happy. Cowboys don’t use that word.” He then shot at me with his plastic hand cannon. “That’s fer puttin’ it on my spelling list.”

Running into the kitchen, he yelled, “Mom, git me some beans!”

Don’t he jist look as cute as a slab a butter meltin’ on a stack a hotcakes?

Angels

“Just remember, angels carry no harps; angels carry hammers.”
-The Hummingbird’s Daughter

“Devils are actually angels.”
-The Pale King

Their hearts thundered down the mountain; they were running. Hammers high and silent, they ran toward the earth, eyes blazing and focused, muscles taut.

They needed no wings; they travel lightly on the hard thick soles of sure feet which never wear shoes. They are acquainted with cold and with heat, with grass and thorns, sand and rocks. Their steps are light and silent; lightning.

No one looks at them; no one can: their faces shine like the sun on shimmering water; their eyes pierce and never blink. Their bodies are hard and intimidating, always under absolute control. To look at them is to understand the meaning of fear.

Behold, His instrument…

They are His messengers, and they are constantly running. They pound the same urgent message, which is often ignored, over and over. It is the answer to a desperate prayer; it is judgment, mercy, and peace. The messengers are legion, filling the air of the earth. They are the substance and evidence of the wind, of faith.

With their silent hammers, they construct belief with the relentless pressure of gravity and time. They pound the same spike of truth, over and over, the same message to each one from the mouth of God:

Fear not, and sing.

And then, the others come, running behind them, whispering doubt and hate and evil and fear. Black and heinous, sleek and slithering, they move with a dark terrifying grace, wielding huge hammers of their own, beating down hearts until there is nearly nothing left. Their mere existence is enough to kill courage and stifle songs. With their black hammers, they crush spirits.

The hammer wielders fight.

But, belief, once built, is very hard to destroy, and when courage faces fear, courage wins, and the victors sing.

Motherhood

Wait
To feel
the first flutterings
Of life

Wait
To push
To be cut open
To bleed
To heal
To hold
And nourish
Your own heart

Wait
To eat
To shower
To pee
To sleep
To dream

Wait
For your heart
To speak
To laugh
To smile
To sleep
To discover
To learn
To grow
To understand

Wait
With your heart
As she
Waits
To push
To be cut open
To bleed
To heal
To hold
To nourish
Her own heart
In the hospital bed
Beside you.

Wait,
You whisper
To your precious tired heart:
Good things do come.