Heather Sellers and her blog

We set up our Christmas tree tonight. As I type the tree towers some 8 feet high, covered in blotches of winking white light. It is most pleasant to do homework on the living room couch with Mr. Tree. What makes the experience more beautiful is that although the tree is fake, my intelligent mother hung a pine-scented thingy from the fake trees' branches, and voila. Fresh-outta-the-woods smell and a happy girl.

After the tree was up, my mom and I chatted, and somehow Heather Sellers came up. Heather Sellers is a professor at Hope. I will have her next semester for my Intro to Creative Writing class, for which I am beyond excited and also a bit apprehensive. I caught a glimpse of Heather (Professor Sellers?) at the opera last weekend. She was wearing a warm looking cape, a cute skirt, tights, and a hat, as well as a big smile - the most noticeable of all her features besides her rather large, long wavy black hair. I immediately fell in love with the woman. From what I hear, she is rather fascinating and a wonderful teacher of creative writing.

We googled Heather because I was trying to describe to my mom the condition Heather has, which is called "face blindness" a.k.a prosopagnosia (look it up, it's beyond interesting). After reading some of her blog posts in "Psychology Today" and learning a little about her life, I stumbled across her own personal blog. Oh, what joy! The personal blog of a real writer who's published a real book. Of course, there are millions of these out there; ignorant as I am, I have not taken the time to find them. Scratch that, I read Beth Moore's blog. But Heather Sellers is in a different category... she is literature, and she is Hope.

So after reading a handful of her blog entries about cycling, writing, and her ecstasy upon reading The New York Times review of her book, my inspiration hit the ceiling and my ambition grew. She has such an easy, familiar way of writing. Her words are carefully chosen, but they don't seem forced. What a talent!

I am looking forward to learning from this little celebrity a bit more about the art of writing.

Thanksgiving

Nudged inside by a whoosh of chill air, the scent of baking bread, gravy, and magnificent turkey hit me as we stepped into Stella and Brian's house. Hello, Thanksgiving. After the smell, what greeted me was a pair of big eyes magnified by a pair of round glasses and a crinkly smile, peering over the back of the couch. Hello, Jordan. The third thing I noticed was a blur of boy as he scampered past and a little giggle. Hello, Alexander.

Toys emerged from the bedroom in hordes to be shown off, scrapbooks of vacations were passed around, and brie cheese and homemade bread preceded the feast.

Then we ate, seated at a table fit for royalty and covered in enough food to host a NFL team.

Then we digested and laughed. Washed the dishes.

And of course, dessert still remaining, we ate again.

In the warm delight of a dark November night, leaning in over half full cups of coffee with our travel-savy friends to examine a world map and dream about other cultures, the magic of the holiday floated in the air like steam from hot out of the oven stuffing.

Hasta los vientos y las olas le obedecen

Since it's warm in Holland, since the sun is shining, since I'm longing for a break from homework and responsibilities... I'm thinking about tropical vacations. And God's faithfulness.

A sight that never fails to move me is the vastness of the ocean. Serene, lovely, stretching for miles and miles. Everything on its surface is exposed, vulnerable. A single sailboat. A dolphin's tail. From the shore, I love to watch the boats go by.

Yet as a passenger, I think the ocean would be slightly more ferocious. The high seas are not a tame place. Fear and terror often sneak abroad ocean voyages, as unwelcome as seasickness or navigational difficulties. I'd rather watch from the shore than be a skipper, or a captain, or any old sailor.

Okay, so maybe it's a little cliche, but I'll go with it anyway. Even as the ocean is super powerful, super scary, at the same time marvelous to behold and terrifying, God controls that ocean. Think about it. We worship the God who calmed the wind and the waves.

Why do storms stir me up into a frenzy? Why do I freak out when we leave shore and the skies grow dark? Jesus doesn't remain asleep for long; he's been in the boat the whole time, and just when the circumstances are about to overwhelm, he rises. With his voice he calms the torrential rain and the rocky waves.

Jesus calms my heart and rows me back to shore in one piece. Everytime.

Crash

I think I was ten.

Running through the sprinkler

in joyous ecstasy we

charged towards each other and

crashed;

it was

summer, and

the continuous stream of freezing

hose water must have

blinded us.

The next minute we were

on the grass, gasping

for air,

the oxygen squeezed

from our lungs,

tears mixing with the

hose water.

You and I

were breathless

but only for a moment.

I am nineteen; it is

fall.

I was running away from you.

We never crashed,

but somehow

a blow knocked me down, regardless.

I'm still waiting

for my lungs to inflate again.

History

A student of history cannot see the present unchanged once fresh winds have swept through the landscape of the past. The influence of voices of bygone days can alter a perspective irrevocably. In an age of reading lit macbook screens and scrolling through internet pages on a personalized, silicon-protected iphone to research a quick question, it is amazing that the historical voices even have a chance. Perhaps our voices must be attuned to them, or our libraries simply need to prop their words up on plastic stands for easy check-out. Maybe if amazon features their works on a top one hundred list, citizens caught up in the craze of our facebook-addicted, consumerist, increasingly more superficial culture can expand their horizons. If only they realized how expansive those horizons could become.

This idea of being alert to the messages of the past is especially vital in faith. History enriches faith in ways immeasurable. Pick up Augustine's Confessions. Understand how heartfelt true faith can be, how poignant, what struggle authentic conversion is for some. Scan The Rule of St. Benedict for ways to bring discipline to the Christian life, a life that accurately reflects the convictions of the religion. Learn about Macrina, John Chrysostom, and other iconographic figures with radical stories. Sit in silence with Celtic Christian poetry and wonder what kinds of natural beauty inspired the words.

Breathe in their stories. Ponder the insights. Cherish their wisdom and discern how these words speak into this time and place, how you might be different because of them.

This has lingered with me all week. Gregory of Nazianzus said: "A man must himself be cleansed before cleansing others; himself become wise, that he may make others wise; become light, and then give light; draw near to God, and so bring others near." Before I desire to shine the light of the gospel to others, first, I must be educated on what this gospel means to me. To Augustine. To Martin Luther. To the church fathers, mothers, monks, abbots, theologians, founders. To us all.

When the sun casts its warm rays through stained glass into a dimly lit chapel, onto your upraised face, and you feel it through closed eyelids and suddenly open eager eyes to a brilliant pane of radiant art...

that is what history does for our faith.

Oh, what a.... wonderful... day!

Right now I am inclined to take one glance at the events of today, crumple up my evaluations of anything good about it, and flick them into the wastebasket, like paper toss. Why? Because the glaringly obvious evidence for a bad day is much clearer than the subtler rays of light vying for attention. I would much rather list the numerous reasons why I want to let big fat tears drench a Kleenex. Why lounging in front of a TV with a carton of cookies and cream ice cream sounds so simply heavenly.

You know what I'm talking about. You nod because you had one of those days last week. Did you give in to the strong urge to throw a temper tantrum? I'm on the verge. I haven't had a day like this in a while.

I remember my affliction and my wandering,

the bitterness and the gall.

I well remember them,

and my soul is downcast within me.

YET....

Yet,

Yet this I call to mind

and therefore I have hope:

Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,

for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;

therefore I will wait for him.”

The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,

to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly

for the salvation of the LORD.

It is good for a man to bear the yoke

while he is young.

(Lamentations 3:19-27)

Look at the bright side, Brooke! What was good about today?

- Black bean burgers for lunch!

- Study time with the lovely Julie at the best coffee shop in town (JP's)

- High compliments on a religion paper

- The prospect of a super cool new job

I will not give in! I will wake up tomorrow morning (hopefully not ten minutes before I have to be somewhere... yes, that happened today...) and commence life anew. Tomorrow morning I'll welcome the day with my Bible and the hope that God is doing something through the silly circumstances that make my sensitive, tired heart overwhelmed and ready to quit.

BECAUSE OF THE LORD'S GREAT LOVE WE ARE NOT CONSUMED.

Hallelujah :-)

Remembering Grandaddy, one year later

The Lord told him what was good,

Pecan tassies, turtle candies,

fresh mountain air.

One thick book beside a

comfy armchair

And this is what he required of him:

Engineer, church elder

respected father to three.

Grandfather to six more, a life

of faith and study.

To do what is right,

Following God's ways

with focus and discipline,

dedicated to truth; a proud

patriarch and citizen.

To love mercy,

He offered wise counsel

with no lack of prayer,

got frustrated by inane politicians, and

stood up for what was fair.

And to walk humbly with his God.

A smile lit up his eyes,

his wit so funny and dry;

God received the glory

from birth to last goodbye.

And he walked humbly

on earth

just as he walks joyously

in heaven

with his God.

Missing Grandaddy today but rejoicing in a life lived for Christ, dedicated to Christ, and fulfilled in Christ.