There’s a children’s story about Frederick the mouse. Frederick’s family busy themselves all summer with gathering supplies to store up for winter. While his family is busting their mouse tails to collect food, Frederick is sitting around, sun-bathing. Apparently, Frederick saves the day though, because once all the supplies are used up in the mouse den, and the mice are shivering and starving, Frederick warms their souls by sharing what it was he had stored up: sun rays, colors and words. This story annoys me. Frederick could have stored up sun rays, colors and words while also gathering nuts and berries. Maybe supplies would have lasted a little longer if Frederick had deigned to lift one of his little mouse fingers to help. I don’t actually want author Leo Lionni teaching my kids the value of sitting on your duff, letting others work for your welfare, all so you can be an artist, but I can see that I’ve probably missed the point. Lionni is probably trying to say something about how good art and beauty is for our souls. I get that. And to prove that I do, I have an example.
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Last summer my little family travelled to Washington DC. DC is one of my ultimate favorite places to be. I can’t support that statement with less than five additional paragraphs of rapturous praise, so I have to let it sit there, alone and mysterious. Except, if you are planning a trip, might I suggest The Hotel Tabard Inn? And Dupont Circle? And Kramerbooks & Afterwards? And Julia’s Empanadas? And The National Geographic Museum? And if you only have one afternoon, please, please, PLEASE go to the National Gallery of Art.
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It was at the National Gallery of Art that I collected one of my most treasured moments in DC. My mom and I only had a couple hours to tour the Smithsonian’s collection of art; our strategy was to remain focused and cover as much ground as possible. We worked our way through the west wing of the museum, giving a moment or two to most of the paintings. We were in the middle of a vast collection of early church history paintings, and while some were really [fill in the blank with your favorite adjective because there were paintings for every description], I found myself mostly disconnected from the work. I would describe myself as someone deeply grateful for and interested in church history, but with my protestant understanding, a lot of the Catholic influence in the paintings was lost on me. So I was simply enjoying the exposure, soaking up the experience of just being surrounded by old art.
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It was when I came to Andrea Solario’s Lamentations that my experience transformed into something deeply personal and moving. Solario’s painting is, as I recall, almost life-size. The painting, like loads of others titled Lamentations, is of the moment when Jesus has been removed from the cross. Mary is cradling his body and they are surrounded by others grieving Jesus’s death. I was standing right level with this scene of mourning and I was able to study each sorrowful face. Each person surrounding Jesus was looking down at Him and I was astounded by how life-like the tears were on each face. As I moved from face to face I finally caught the eye of the person standing just behind Mary and Jesus. That man was looking right at me. He really was. Instantly, instead of being just a casual observer to this scene, trying to appreciate the technical skill and eye of the artist, I was pulled into this heart-wrenching scene. I was there, filling that space in front of Jesus. No longer was I just standing in a museum, I was one of the souls gripped by the knowledge that Jesus was dead. My Hope had died on a cross. Death had claimed Him, too. He had been the only One who had ever brought people back from the grave, but he will now be in a grave. He was innocent. I am guilty. Where is God? Oh! My soul! Here are my tears, too.
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I totally cried. Right there- huge self-conscious tears. I tried to clean myself up before stepping away from that moment and finding where my mom had wandered off to, but my soul has been forever imprinted by that moment. Even though I know God did not leave us to despair His death; that Jesus did not stay in the grave, that moment is now part of the grief and hope of my faith. That moment is now part of my worship and celebration. My Easters are forever changed by that moment. That was a moment I collected, Frederick-like.
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Though it is spring outside my house, and life is beginning to bud again in that spectacular shade of green that I like best, I am still in the winter of a rural life. I love living in Alaska. I love my community and I love the gorgeous setting that holds my days. It’s just that, in addition to vitamin D, I am little deficient in art, history, culture and diversity here. I love being on old streets, surrounded by old buildings all with old stories to tell, meanwhile art and diversity overwhelming my senses. It’s a sad fact of life that if a building is old in Alaska, it is only 50 to 100 years old and a sketchy dump, and chances are that said dump is housing a meth lab or a budding Unabomber. As for art and diversity, apparently Kansas came to the Alaska State Fair a couple summers ago. It helps a little that we are members of the Anchorage Museum of Art, and we do try to catch events at the Performing Arts Center, but there is so much I hope to see outside of Alaska. I have wanderlust and a mileage plan that comes with companion tickets, so every once in a while we can get out of Alaska to “store up” more experiences. When I am feeling hungry for things I can’t see or experience here in Alaska, and there are no plans for getting out, I feast on the memories I’ve collected. Like Frederick and his family. It’s almost enough to survive the Alaska State Fair line-up.

i love you…

Who doesn’t love Ken and Barbie’s “I Love You” game in Toy Story 3? While Ash never agrees to go through any Jane Austen scenes with me, he will be Ken to my Barbie every time. With that said, we Browns, including the kids, have a different “I Love You” game. After “I love you…” I add an adjective and see where the fun takes us. I love words, and I hope my children will learn to love words, too. I hope they will learn to use words for good, and not evil. I hope they will experience sentences that are delicious to them. I also hope I’m not going to make any of you throw up with this little love-fest of the Brown kids. While I do hope we’re raising a Nobel Peace Prize winner or three, we don’t take ourselves too seriously around here: you shouldn’t either. Keep Ken and Barbie in mind while you peruse our little tribute to words.

I love you…

…sweeter than Nana Jane’s tea.
…sweeter than chocolate chip cookies.

…sparklier than ruby red slippers.
…sparklier than a moon-filled, mid-winter night.
…sparklier than a night spent kayaking through a phosphorescent sea.

…wigglier than Charlotte’s tooth.
…wigglier than an earth worm.

…louder than a howler monkey.
…louder than Alistair screaming at 2am.

…happier than a glass of milk.
…happier than fleece mittens.
…happier than South Carolina watermelon.
…happier than daffodils.
…happier than a book with a quilt.
…happier than a Kaladi’s mocha.
…happier than picking raspberries, minus the fat spiders.

…fiercer than a momma grizzly.

…dustier than hiking the Butte.

…comfier than potato soup in January.
…comfier than felted slippers.

…sunnier than Charlotte and Liam’s freckles.

…bigger than a Botero woman. *

…sillier than a fake British accent.
…sillier than Jones, Skippy Jon and Junie B, that is.

*Botero's "Ballerina to the Handrail"

regret

I listen to National Public Radio. I listen when I am in my car, driving Charlotte to and from school. There’s loads that I appreciate about NPR, not the least of which is that it is my news source these days(no TV or internet in my house), but my very favorite thing about NPR happens every weekday at 3pm. Every weekday, at 3pm, I am sitting in the school’s drive-thru pick-up line, waiting for my daughter. And every weekday at 3pm, Garrison Keillor hosts The Writer’s Almanac. For three to five minutes, Garrison Keillor tells me a few of the events that have occurred on that day in history. All the events are from the history of art and culture. And while I’m interested in the trivia I glean, like celebrating Billy Collins’ birthday last month and Oscar Wilde’s last week, my favorite thing about those three to five minutes is that Garrison Keillor reads me a poem. It is one of the small treasures in my day that I get to hear a poem read to me- even when I don’t necessarily care for the poem itself.

It was several weeks ago that I heard “Antilamentation” by Dorianne Laux. I sat entranced as Garrison told me to “Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read to the end just to find out who killed the cook, not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark, in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication, not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot, the one you beat to the punch line, the door or the one who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.” A little later Garrison read, “You were meant to inhale those smoky nights over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches. You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still you end up here. Regret none of it…” And then just a few lines later, “You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake, ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house after the TV set has been pitched out the window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.” I appreciate how the author paints pictures with words, therefore I appreciate this poem. When I hear this poem, I feel loneliness and desperation… I feel regret. The author says, “regret nothing”, but then drowns me in regrettable sentences and moments. I am left huddled under that lit sign on the corner, checking my pockets for a cigarette I won’t find; my soul adrift in the futility of my life. Seriously, well done, Dorianne Laux: I don’t even smoke.

When the Writer’s Almanac ended that day, and the shroud of magic that Dorianne Laux and Garrison Keillor wove had been lifted, I sat and stewed on the idea of regretting nothing. By the time I was parked back in my driveway, I had come to the conclusion that it is not possible to regret nothing. Not even advisable to try, unless one is attempting life as sociopath. The only alternative is to succeed in a blameless, sinless life, which is why I maintain that to “regret nothing” is not possible: even a one-time offense in pride, envy, deception, bigotry, or hate is regrettable.

Regret is not the sum total of who I am, but I have come to be thankful for regret. I have learned some huge lessons through regret. I can be so foolish, fearful, and selfish, but regret helps me remember the pain of choices I’ve made under those influences. I think God uses regret for our good. The sum total of me includes all my crappy choices and because of Jesus, how the consequences have been redeemed. I appreciate that Dorianne Laux doesn’t want me to be too hard on myself, but Teachable, and Redeemed each have a welcome light on and are waiting at the door to let me in: a lot like what my friend says about her Alcoholics Anonymous groups actually. I can imagine Regretters Anonymous facilitated by Jesus and though maybe being a place that’s initially embarrassing, or awkward to be seen and known, it’s a place I can acknowledge my regret, make things right, and move on, with accountability. This place is a lot healthier than Ms. Laux’s dark corner, on Hopeless and Resigned.

So, in the spirit of confession and vulnerability, here’s an abridged list of my regrets:

I should have tried out.
I should have worn my retainer more.
That time I ducked and hid.
That job.
I gave bitterness a safe harbor in my soul.
I should have gotten a bigger tattoo.
I should have practiced, or at least not said I had.
I should have been a kinder babysitter.
My7th and 11th grade school pictures.
I should have said something sooner.
That letter.
Or that one.
I should not have given him the time of day.
I should have told her she was being mean.

Would you put one of your regrets in a comment?

viva la potluck

I’m always looking to join a good revolution. I think it’s partly because I want to be able to wear a beret and be taken seriously- at the same time. I also think it’s good for a soul to charge a windmill or two. (Confession: I’ve never read Don Quixote. I read the first 17ish pages and that was enough to know it’s nearly unreadable that one. So while I reference some books, don’t assume I’ve read them.) My particular windmills? First, I want to liberate people from their cell phones. Ask me about this sometime if you are into self-righteous, sanctimonious soap-boxes. I think I have a point here, but probably all revolutionaries do.

Another of my revolutions is to help everyone around me gain five pounds. I don’t want to exercise and I don’t want to diet. What’s left, then, for my self-esteem? Obviously, help everyone else get chubby. So here’s to brownies and pound cake and chocolate chip cookies! And here’s to my new favorite- chai tea cookies! And here’s especially to sharing!

Most recently, I joined a potluck revolution. I know, potlucks are kinda old-school and a little disgusting if you add yeast to your imagination, but… still sweet. Especially if your church is biggish and doesn’t have a better way for new people to meet and connect with regular attenders. When a friend first suggested we start potlucking, I knew instantly that I wanted in on this revolution. Mostly because I have a heart to see people be accepted and belong. Our church is biggish and it’s too easy to get lost in the jumble. We don’t have a great, consistent way for people to step from Sunday attendance into community. How does a person interested in joining us actually join us? Especially when those of us who have been there for any amount of time all sit together and make plans together and leave for coffee together.

Some argue that the responsibility of trying belongs to the new person. I disagree: A church should not be a place where only the strongest survive. A church should not be a place where only the extroverted soul blessedly lacking the self-consciousness that inhibits the rest of us can belong. It’s easy to forget how uncomfortable being new is. It’s easy to assume someone else is welcoming that new person. It’s too easy to overlook or bypass an awkward introduction or invitation when you’ve been a part of your church for years and there’s loads of easier conversations to have.

Some argue that they are too introverted to walk up to and start a conversation with a person they don’t know. I’m not accepting this anymore. You may feel awkward, but you are loved and accepted and know the joy of salvation. That person new to our Sunday morning services might not have any of that. You have nothing to lose. And now, if you really can’t think of anything else to say, you can ask, “Would you like to join us for a potluck?”

A potluck revolution is not for the faint of heart. There probably won’t be enough food to go around and if I’m being intentional, I’ll be sitting at a table with people I don’t know. The point of the revolution though is to create a time and place where no one is cooler than everyone else and no one belongs more than others. We’ll dish up casseroles together and get to know one another’s stories. By attending the potluck, we’re making a pact that because of Jesus, I’ll be okay with you and you’ll be okay with me. We’re pacting that when we see each other again, we’ll smile and be open to another conversation. Understanding that a Christian’s journey is not meant to be walked alone, our potluck pact will be to worship together, to learn together and to serve together. We’re making a pact to be the church together. So let’s raise our fists together and shout, “Viva la potluck! Viva la church!” Here’s to revolutionizing our church, one potluck at a time.

The Bleachers

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great acloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” Hebrews 12:1-2.

My active imagination allows me to think of these verses alongside a high school cross country race course. I love to imagine all the saints referenced in the preceding chapter seated in the bleachers at the end of the course. There would be more in those bleachers now, because of how much time has passed since these words were written. But I love to imagine my life as a cross country race and my course ending in front of those bleachers. I want to limp across that finish line, spent and muddy and broken, having given it all, with those bleachers thundering in applause and praise. Only, understand me here: the cheering won’t be for me, but for Jesus. I’m not running this race for me. If it was about me, I wouldn’t be running at all. I’d be sitting on my couch, drinking coffee and reading Twilight, metaphorically. But I am running because God has set my heart free and my life is now about His fame and glory. So I am running as hard and fast as I know how, devoted to what Jesus is devoted to. In fact, I want to run so well that I am worthy of that Cloud of Witnesses to cheer for me. I want to be able to finish my race and then climb up into those bleachers to cheer on the ones coming after me. I want to be worthy of joining them in God’s praise. I can’t imagine sitting beside them and understanding how to praise if I make my life devoted to my comfort and happiness. Those souls were persecuted and finished their races bloody and broken because of their love for Jesus. If you don’t know who I am talking about, read the eleventh chapter of Hebrews to get acquainted with these souls. Read, too, some missionary biographies: Jim Elliot, Bruce Olson, William Carey, to name just a few. If I am surrounded by such as these, I want to hear them encouraging me to, “Run faster! You’re almost there! Praise God, you’re almost there.”

I think, as Christians, while each of us is running, we’re also meant to cheer one another on. Some of us will slip and stumble through mud bogs, like Christian from Pilgrim’sProgress. Many of us will even be tempted to step out of the race, too. But may I never be a hindrance or obstacle to my brother or sister in their race. May I never, out of pride, jealousy, anger, malice or whatever, push them or throw myself in their way. Instead, I want to be handing out cups of water or Gatorade and cheering, “Keep running! Please keep running! It’s worth it… He’s always worth it!” When I admonish or teach another, may it be so that person’s race is run better. If they are in a bog or wounded along their course, may I in love carry them along. I want their race run brilliantly, worthy of the Gospel, for God’s fame.

I think of John the Baptist. Because of injustice against him, he was in jail and about to be beheaded. He loved Jesus and was devoted to Jesus’ fame and glory. John would be the last prophet, camel skin clothes, locust diet and all. His life was devoted to telling people to get ready for Jesus- to get ready for God’s redemption plan. And Jesus loved him! They were cousins, but they were entwined in God’s love and good purpose. So when John sent word to Jesus from his prison cell asking, “Aren’t you the one?” he wasn’t actually doubting who Jesus was. John knew full well, and it was because of his knowledge that he was asking such a thing. It’s like he was saying, “What am I still doing in here? Why haven’t you come for me? Why aren’t you saving me from this?” And Jesus sent word back, saying, “Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, and the deaf hear, the dead are raised up, the poor have good news preached to them. And blessed is the one who is not offended by me.” Basically, Jesus was saying, “Don’t lose it, John. Out of love, I’m not saving you from this. You’re race is almost done- you’re almost there. Keep running.” That’s John the Baptist! Who am I to expect otherwise? Why would I want anything else? I want to be worthy of Jesus urging me on. I want to be worthy of Jesus stepping out of the stands to carry me to my place in the bleachers. May I be worthy of those bleachers!

The Wasilla Bar

I love a good Cinderella story so that is why, after seven months of blogging inactivity, I am offering a humble post about The Wasilla Bar. This post is also the result of my friend, Matt’s, attention to detail and quirky sense of humor. Matt has made a goal to take a picture every day for a year and to post each picture on Facebook. His pictures are great: he has an eye and sense of humor for details. I love how his pictures tell stories. Inspired as I have been by Matt’s goal, I am challenging myself to write each week. I hope to appreciate the details around me. I’ve missed writing, but I am apprehensive about making any goals for myself. It’s not like I have been sitting around making myself stay away from my blog these past seven months. I’ve just plain been at a loss for what to write. This will be my attempt to bring some discipline to one of my loves.

So about the bar. A good blogger would have called and done some research. I am not such a blogger. All I know is that for as long as I can remember, that place has looked exactly like the place for “Up To No Good.” The Wasilla Bar has always struck me as something inspired by old westerns. There’s the plank porch that wraps around the front of the building, and log railings to hitch your horse to. Maybe if I had ever seen some real cowboys use the Wasilla Bar as their watering hole my personal feelings would be more quaint than apprehensive. All that I can offer as anecdotal support is that in my early college years I worked as a hostess at the Mat-Su resort. The Mat-Su Resort was a nice (as a matter of hindsight, I need to add an “ish” to qualify “nice”) restaurant in Wasilla and was always packed out for the Easter and Mothers’ Day brunch buffets. I remember working through the weekend evenings when different high school class reunions were using the bar for their official party. Yikes. I developed some definite prejudices against 30 somethings drinking whatever and dancing to eighties music as an offering to nostalgia. The only way this relates to The Wasilla Bar is that I’ve carried this idea that if that was happening at the Mat-Su Resort, I had no interest whatsoever in witnessing the goings-on of The Wasilla Bar. There was a totem pole of pathetic in my mind and The Wasilla Bar bottomed out.

And then The Salvation Army moved in. Seriously. I don’t know why, but sometime in the last five-ish years, the bar closed up and the Salvation Army moved in. Who knew the Salvation Army was so special ops and guerilla warfare? They’re winning hearts and minds, strategically replacing a den of iniquity with a haven for hope. Or they’re just selling used trousers.
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I really want The Salvation Army be like the musical, Guys and Dolls. For obvious reasons, I swoon every time the young, smoldering Marlon Brando says, “Sister Sarah Brown.” But in a more intellectual, less instinctual way, I wish The Salvation Army was still made up of individuals wearing uniforms with rank and trying to win souls with the Gospel of Jesus and a marching band. I love that scene where all the gamblers and mobsters are sitting through a Salvation Army church service because they’ve been part of a bet, but one soul experiences true conviction and a transformation. I would love to imagine Wasilla’s Salvation Army extending hope and grace to our community. I would LOVE to see Wasilla’s “Up To No Goods” flooding into the bar again, but for a gospel message. I love imagining Jesus transforming souls from that old dance floor. Sadly, I’ve stood in the middle of that dance floor, breathing through my mouth (why does every thrift store smell like that?), surrounded just by stained couches and mismatched dishes. A thrift store does offer a little hope in a community, and I think the Salvation Army is committed to helping people in sad situations, but my imagination begs for a little more.

I think of what Sam Gamgee said at the end of the LoTR trilogy. He says something like, “Is every sad thing now going to become untrue?” And yes! Yes it will, Sam! That’s what Jesus does. He will make every sad thing untrue. We all get to be Cinderella with Jesus: what was once a mess is now accepted and loved: redeemed. Marlon Brando aside, I love Wasilla’s Salvation Army.

And I love Matt's pictures! Here's a couple of my favorites, with the quotes he added to each. If you want to see the rest of his work on facebook, click here.

“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” — C.S. Lewis.

"Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather." — John Ruskin.

a hypothesis

I've been working on a hypothesis.

I've been wondering if all our legends and fairy tales are stories we've created out of the God-shaped hole we have. I've only gotten so far as the Cinderella story. The Cinderella thing is everywhere- think of every story where the main character is oppressed in some way and becomes the great love of some rich benefactor. This is Twilight and My Fair Lady. This is Pretty Woman and Elizabeth Bennett, although the prince notoriously overlooks our Cinderella at their first ball here. The Cinderella story is every story where the (usually) heroine is poor or shackled in some way and then is miraculously rescued from her dreary, hopeless life by someone who makes her a treasure.

Isn't that the Gospel? We, wretches that we are, shackled to our sin, are rescued and given a life of blessing? Hmmm... Our very own Prince finds us and fights to save us.

Sleeping Beauty and Snow White start their stories with a curse and are then awakened from death by a love that has conquered the curse. Doesn't this sound familiar? (Please excuse the fact that I only know the Disney version of these stories... does this invalidate my hypothesis in some way? Quite possibly, but moving along...)

I can't help but wonder if all our greatest stories come from a place that is meant to draw us to the Throne of Grace. Most authors probably don't intend to take us there, but I can't help but wonder about the "glory compass" (Paul Tripp) in all of us- that thing in us that pulls us to stories of greatness and glory. What if that compass is there on purpose? What if it's in our DNA, so to speak? What is God put it there because He wants us to recognize Him? What if all our glory stories are meant to draw us to the One who actually can fill that hole for us? Maybe all these stories are meant for us to recognize the Gospel when we hear it? We understand Cinderella; we get her. Who doesn't want to be known and loved and rescued? Who doesn't want to be the Bell(a) of the ball, so to speak? But what a celebration when we learn that we all get the Prince. We all get the blessing of His love.

And just so you don't start thinking, "Well, this is fine if you're a girl and are into Twilight, but men don't dream about being Cinderella..." Really? Because I love King Arthur stories- the ones where (usually) the hero is a nobody and is discovered to be THE somebody who will overcome evil and save everyone else through great personal sacrifice: think Luke Skywalker and Harry Potter and Neo. Is this the boy version of Cinderella? Only, Cinderfella gets the glory here. This is where my hypothesis takes a hit because we are just plain needy with God. We can't fight our own demons. We all need to be rescued. But I still see all these type stories as ones that will help us get/understand what God has done for us: Jesus, born in a manger to poor parents who faced the scandal of a child born out of wedlock, was a nobody by our standards. But He was the ONLY one who could overcome evil through personal sacrifce. I'm taking (HUGE) liberties with a Tim Keller quote here, but Jesus is the true and better Prince Charming and the true and better King Arthur.

You don't get an edited post tonight, folks. I'm sorry about that but it's way past when I should have gone to bed- for the fourth night in a row. I just wanted to post these thoughts because I've had this great picture of Liam- my son whose glory compass makes him ache to be a hero. Here he's wearing a souvenir from his papa's past- a past that includes jumping out of airplanes.