Each month I review a new book for ImageUpdate. Here’s the latest.
Essays of Rest and Restlessness
First Church of the Higher Elevations: Mountains, Prayer and Presence by Peter Anderson
Things that many of us hope for in prayer and pilgrimage, even if we don’t admit it: “quiet peaceful serenity,” “out-of-the-ordinary contemplative skill,” “great mystical insight.” What we often get, instead: “strangeness,” “an experience of Presence that feels more like absence,” and the occasional attack by a charging sloth bear.Read More
Fooling around with a song I’ve always loved. Breaking out the college French. Accompanied by cheeky guitarist Rob Hinst.
I was pretty mad at my husband this morning. Details not important. Level of anger important. I was at that stage where you get out the blankets for that spare bed in the basement. I was at the stage where I regarded every flattering social media post we’ve ever made about each other as the height of hypocrisy, a sad 21st century updating of 1950s suburban social veneers. Like, who ARE these stupid happy people?
I was at the stage where (although I intellectually assented that we were still best friends) I kicked him out of the house and told him to go cool off at some coffee shop.
Then I furiously made French toast for the children. Yes, it is possible to do anything furiously.
It is Saturday–a domestic day. With the kiddos around, I could not write, or read, or crankily run down to the beach, or other things I might choose to do at moments of ire. So when my husband came home a few hours later, he found me on a housecleaning jag.
He began to pick up toys alongside me. Whatever our falling out, it remains true that he is mostly an upstanding marital citizen.
A while later, after I had scrubbed the bathtub and swept my office, he came and found me and hugged me for a while.
He told me some things. I respected those things. I thanked him.
And because we happened to be standing by the poetry section of my bookshelf,
I said, “I’d like to mark this moment by reading a poem that I carefully hand-selected for this occasion.”
I grabbed a completely random book off the shelf. (It turned out to be Ghost Girl by Amy Gerstler. It’s pretty fabulous.)
Then I opened this random book to a random poem. I looked at the title. I looked at my husband. I read him the title.
“Ode to Semen.”
He sat down, as one does at a poetry reading, and I read him the poem.
We observed a moment of silence.
“Don’t say poetry never did anything for you,” I said.
I think we’re OK now.
I quit my church job this year. I was the Arts Director at an imperfect-but-wonderful, nondenominational church. My job involved dreaming up crazy creative environments and then bringing them to life.
Over time I realized this was indeed a dream job–but not mine.
I loved, loved my coworkers. But life gives you only so many hours, and I have this compulsion to write stories. And I like to make music. And I’ve got two small sons who cling to me like caterpillars on a tree. I am always having theological quarrels with myself. And I have, for better or for worse, incurable wanderlust, and I hate cubicles.
The one thing I loved was writing and delivering these quirky sermons, which our pastor generously calls “unconventional.” I never went to seminary, so nobody ever told me how to deliver a normal one.
Here’s a new crop of them…Read More