Found Faithful

Found Faithful

Some time in 1978 or 79, after my parents had moved to Ankeny, Iowa from Omaha, we switched churches. We’d belonged to the United Methodist Church, where I was baptized as an infant, I assume because that’s the church my dad was raised in. That is to say, that is the denomination that held their official membership. Not that we or anyone in my parents’ families really went there much, according to the stories I remember hearing. Still, that was our church affiliation –until we moved to Des Moines.

After the move and a year or two, my parents started driving into Des Moines to go to church on Sunday mornings. We started going to this other, bigger church in Beaverdale, a stately old brick building at the corner of Beaver Ave. and Adams. First Federated Church, it was called. No, not a bank or an insurance company, a church. The church in the late 1970s was in the middle of a huge growth spurt, emerging from its identity as a hippie-friendly congregation with two young pastors into Iowa’s (probably) first megachurch. But this was before all that. Or at least, it was the beginning.

Our Sunday school and children’s church met in what used to be a small grocery store next to the old main church building. That’s where I stumbled into children’s choir on Sunday nights where they were finishing up practicing for Sir Oliver’s Song (I joined too late for that performance, but I got to practice with them) and started going to Wednesday night Awana while my parents went to Navigators’ discipleship classes. Our family climate changed profoundly in those years. God became real to me as a kid somewhere in those years. Church became more than play-dough and Bible stories and became ways to think about the world and things I could do, things I should do because I was a child of God, a kid with Jesus in my heart. We never talked about Jesus being in our hearts or memorized Bible verses at the Methodist church. I remember thinking of that as being very strange once I’d been at Federated a couple years, like the Methodists had hidden something from me. And this church was BIG. Big enough that they bought an old junior high school and remodeled it together to make it into our next church building. January 4, 1980 (yes, I still remember the date), we filed into the “new church” auditorium and dedicated the place. I had no idea then the place this building would have in my heart, because a year or two after that, everything changed.

We moved, back to Glenwood for a few years. We joined a tiny Southern Baptist church plant and went from a Sunday morning with several hundred others and a pastor who didn’t really know our names to a congregation of about a dozen or twenty, depending on the week. There were things I liked about that, but more things I missed. I missed Awana. I missed the Christian school where I spent my second grade year, before we’d moved. When Federated moved into that old school building, so did the Christian school, and that first year there was my first year at Des Moines Christian, 1980-81. I spent about 90 minutes or so on the bus each day commuting –that’s how important my parents thought me going there was, and I loved the school. Loved that our teacher was free to talk about God, that people really seemed to care for each other. But then, like I said, we moved away.

And then, after a few years, we moved back. In the summer of 1985, I joined youth group at Federated, along with a lot of the kids I barely remembered from Sunday school back then. I doubt any of them remembered me. Youth group back then met in the gym, a hundred or so folding chairs gathered and for the first while, the high school and the junior high were together. I can’t remember if it was White Heart (our youth group pastor’s favorite Christian rock band) or Petra on the boom box that morning, but it was very, very different. I felt like I’d crossed into a whole new chapter of everything that morning. Coming back to Des Moines, back to Federated, back to Des Moines Christian felt like a dream come true –and it literally was for me. I found a place in with the youth group kids, maybe even moreso than with the kids in my class at school. They were my closer friends, the people I hung out with on the weekends and Wednesday nights.

And things continued in the vein of explosive growth. This was during the dawn of the Willow Creek megachurch movement, and we, at the time, were Des Moines’ very first megachurch. Our services were televised, our Easter musicals were sold-out affairs. When we built a brand new addition and huge 4,000 seat sanctuary on to that old junior high school, we proudly identified ourselves as the largest church in Iowa. On Easter and Christmas, we put on better-than-community-theater quality musicals, with acting and choreography and contemporary songs and the occasional laser light show or Jesus descending from the ceiling. Our youth choir, in my sophomore year, premiered a brand-new, not-even-in-print musical for a publisher out in California. We students wrote the choreography ourselves, with guidance from our music pastor and a couple talented parents. Our moms sewed costumes. The maintenance crew built sets. It was a Big Deal. Big enough, I learned, that though I hadn’t been in choir in high school for one year, I had enough voice knowledge and musical training to make it into chorale during my freshman year of college on just what I’d learned at church.

More than that, it was where I belonged. I never quite fit in at school, but on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings, I knew where I fit. I guess I figured it would always stay that way. That I’d always have that to return to, that we’d bump into each other once we joined the college Sunday school class and married and had kids of our own.

But that didn’t really happen. In my senior year, just after our pastors had celebrated their anniversary of ministering together, just after our church’s 75th anniversary, everything fell apart. Our church split. My family left, ostensibly for other reasons I didn’t understand, not due to the split, but I still felt the ripping. I had friends still at Federated, some who left, some who stayed. But those incredible youth group years were pretty much over for me. I spent my senior year at a church where I had to start over again, and then I went to college, unsure even of where I belonged on the Sundays when I came back home. Federated wasn’t my church home any more, and neither was the church my parents went to, really. And during my college years, like a lot of students, I wound up tearing what I believed down to its foundations and rebuilding it again –stronger. But a lot of what I’d left out were the things that I’d learned at Federated. Still, I always saw those years as important, as foundational. There was a part of that place that would always be home to me.

But then, home wasn’t home any more. My youth group scattered, moved, grew up. Pastors came and left. The church shrank from the 1,000-plus families when I was there in high school to a congregation of a few hundred. That amazing 4,000 seat sanctuary became a burden to those who stayed and had to pay it off. Things fell apart, materially and otherwise. Things got fixed, materially and otherwise. The Christian school, my alma mater, moved across town to a new building.

So many good memories bound up in that place. But the remnant of several hundred as late have decided that the building no longer fits the church that inhabits it, and so, this Sunday, this morning, they held their last service there.

I knew this was coming, and so on one of my last trips home to Des Moines, I drove out to the church, to my old school, and wandered the halls for a little closure, I guess. Nothing, of course, was much the same. Even the smells were different. The smell of pencil shavings and floor wax was gone, now that the school had moved out. Not many people walking around. I was happy to discover that a few classroom doors had been left open, so I could go in and see that the place I remembered really was gone. The “new building,” the part that was added on when I was in high school was shuttered. It was closed off intentionally a year or two ago and left unused due to the expense of heating, cooling, and maintaining the unnecessary square footage. For the last few years, the congregation has held services in the original auditorium, something that alone seems too strange for me to understand.

But, things change. And a little like my husband, whose entire neighborhood in Peru has been turned over to the government and the reclamation of the jungle now that the task of Bible translation is done there, I can’t go “home” there again, either.

Some might call Federated’s history a cautionary tale. I imagine that from what I have heard of the difficult years since I’ve left Des Moines, there might be some for whom a move from that building feels a bit like leaving an old haunted house. I’m sure that for those that remain and some that have left, not all the memories that building contains are happy ones. I remember the theme during that 75th anniversary celebration: “Found Faithful.” I remember thinking even as a teenage kid how proud that sounded. The kind of proud that rings in your head like chewing tinfoil, like something’s struck the wrong note. The split, ironically, happened a couple weeks after that “Found Faithful” celebration. What I think we all discovered after, particularly those who remained, was that it wasn’t we, the congregation, that were found faithful, but God Himself, who carried that church through the years that followed.

First Federated Church as it was, after today, is a part of history. The church has renamed itself “The Mission,” along with this cross-town move to another, smaller building. I can’t go back to the old building and wander the halls again. I won’t be able to show my kids where I went to high school, where I graduated, where I hid during the New Years’ Eve games of hide-and-seek in the darkened building. Oh, and that old building at Beaver and Adams, where I was baptized (again) at age eight –that was hit by lightning in the years we were in Glenwood and burned down. There are apartments there where the old church once stood.

But I have the memories, and I have the building stones of faith that I was given there. Some stones got left behind along the way, some stones have crumbled because life and my walk with God has proven that they weren’t solid. Some have held. Still, the part in my soul that knows that God wastes nothing knows that for all the things I might have had to re-learn or un-learn, the things I learned and experienced in those years were all necessary to bring me along to where I am now. And for that, I am thankful for a God who, unlike his people, is always found faithful.

**The photo at the top is from the original Beaver and Adams church (not sure if it predates that, but it might). It was moved from the old building and remounted on the Franklin Ave. property. Behind the sign is a wall of the old junior high building (the gym, if I remember correctly) and a wall from the new auditorium addition. 



Unplugged, for a while at least.

Unplugged, for a while at least.

So, I’ve been thinking about doing this for at least a month and a half now. Thought about making a clean break at the beginning of the new year, but I didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t. It’s been sort of a lonely few months anyway, what with the transition back home and without the daily interaction of the classroom. But I still can’t shake the idea that a little time away from social media would do me some good.

Facebook is the only connection I have to some of my people from the last couple years, and the only connection I have to people from my past with whom I’ve reconnected. Would I be able to maintain a connection if I walked away from social media? Likely not, to be honest. I could barely keep up with my pen pals back in the days when letter writing was how we kept in touch. Does anybody use email these days for anything other than brief, productive, essential communication any more anyway (beside me, who still uses it to write like I would in a real letter, I’m sure to the annoyance of the ones who receive them)? …For that matter, does anyone actually READ their email (my teacher husband would say probably not, at least as it pertains to his students…)?

Could I really step away from Facebook and Twitter? Meh. Probably. The times I’ve tried before, though, it’s been more stepping back, of not responding, of not posting. But I still read others’ posts. That’s what I had a hard time letting go –not so much FOMO (that’s “Fear Of Missing Out”), but fear of not finding out something I should know. And in some corners of my world, Facebook is a communal online calendar and newsletter of events.

So, why quit? That’s where I’ve been in this month and a half. Why walk away? Primarily, it’s a concern about the amount of time I spend attached to social media (for me, only Facebook and to a lesser amount, Twitter. I don’t understand Snapchat, and Pinterest lost its glimmer about a week in). It’s a mind-numbing comfort. Reaching for our phones in times of awkward silence or empty moments has become a tic for most of us. I hate how that habit has dulled my ability to pay attention to the world around me. I used to be quite observant, a person who didn’t miss much. Now, though? I think my phone habits are eroding that ability, and if you write, you know that the skill of careful observation is essential to writing well.

I hate that Facebook is such an easy way to craft an alternate identity. I hate that it so often becomes a way of framing my existence, of editing out the things I don’t want to reveal and billboarding every detail that I want the world to know about me (example: do I really look like ANY of the selfies I’ve ever taken? I doubt it). More than that, though, I think it’s weakened our collective ability to have constructive face-to-face discussions on things we disagree about.

Early on, I made a conscious decision to avoid discussing politics on Facebook (that’s more of what I use my Twitter account for, where two-way discourse is a little more concise and, to be honest, difficult). I have seen a handful of occasions where friends have had constructive, civil, even loving disagreements on Facebook. But it’s the exception, not the rule. I decided early on that I prefer to discuss that kind of thing personally, where I can read a person’s tone and communicate my own more clearly, so I use my Facebook account for other things. As they say, that’s JMHO. Just my humble opinion.

I have friends on both sides of the political spectrum, and as I’ve decided where my own politics fall, I’ve found myself limiting how much I see from friends who have a pattern of declaring their allegiance to parties, policies, and politicians I disagree with. And I hate that. I hate that I can control that corner of my online existence with the selection of a box or an addition or deletion to a list. It takes a lot for me to unfriend someone unless I just plain don’t know them, but I’ve unfollowed plenty of people –particularly November before last. It got to the point one week in November of 2016 that all it took for me to start looking for the “unfollow” box was one too many political posts (or, worse, memes) that hit me the wrong way, and you were gone from my feed, at least for a while. It helped, a little, but I hated that I had that much control over the thing, which now is sort of my window on the world some days. I value the fact that my circle of friends is diverse, and the idea that I can sweep through and filter out the opinions I don’t like doesn’t feel right at all.

Back when my kids were very little and I was housebound with them most days, I discovered an online message board of Christian moms. It became my community, and, to be honest, I spent far too much time online, particularly in seasons when I was fighting depression. I stopped reading books. I quit making things, quit making art. I seldom wrote. Cooking and housekeeping became a chore only done when completely necessary, with much internal resistance and unspoken resentment. I lost the joy in completing everyday tasks. This group of moms became my escape -and though they got me through a lot of the tough parts of new motherhood (and for that, I value the experience), I regret the time I could have spent calling someone to go for coffee or take the kids to the park together, like people used to. I regret the times I spent the kids’ naptime on the computer instead of being creative or filling my own (empty) well. Three years ago, I deactivated my account there with significant trepidation. I realized that I’d outgrown the need for it. It took fully two weeks to quit the knee-jerk reflex of typing in the address to the board when I first sat down to the computer, but eventually, I found all kinds of freedom and time that I’d missed. Unfortunately, however, I’ve found that what used to be message board time has eventually become Facebook time, particularly once I got a smartphone and my “friends who live in a lighted box” could be carried with me everywhere. Sure, I read more now, I’m knitting again, I write, and I study, but I still spend too much time in virtual reality.

So, I’m thinking it’s time to step away for a while. Not sure for how long, but I need to pull the plug for a bit, to find my balance again and relearn how to connect with people and watch the world in my spare time and learn to enjoy awkward silences again. I’m resisting even announcing this, because nothing says “self-righteous flounce” like someone who announces they’re quitting social media for good (implied: AND YOU SHOULD TOO).

I’m writing this more to figure out why I can’t let go of the idea that I should quit for a while than to write a manifesto against social media. I’m not saying that it’s not a good thing, mostly. I’m just not sure I’m using it well, myself.

I’m hoping that I’ll relearn how to communicate with more depth, to think before I write in a different way –instead of in a defensive sense (how will people reply to this and who will read it?), in a way that communicates with depth and complexity. Depth that can’t be found in 144 or even 288 characters. Depth that reveals what I want to reveal, but teaches me as I write about even the things I can’t or don’t control. I want my sense of mystery back. I want to talk to someone and not have them reply, “yeah, I read that the other day…” I want silence again. I want a life without so much distraction, and I want, for once, for my friends to be found outside the lighted boxes on my desk and in my pocket.

So, if you need me for the next while, you can find me via email (my name at gmail dot com) and occasionally around here. I just might respond with an effusively wordy, completely obnoxiously wandering conversational reply that you’ll probably ignore anyway.




“I am going to make it through this year
If it kills me…”

-“This Year”, The Mountain Goats


This was the year that began with a looming new presidency that I wasn’t entirely excited about (to be honest, moderately terrified) and a profound sense of disappointment with my nation. This was the year I went back on Wellbutrin.

This was the year that began with a twist of pain in my heart that I was beginning my final semester at college, and a twist of anxiety in my gut that I was taking a couple classes that I felt were just beyond my comfort zone.

This was the year I had an essay published –on paper, in a magazine that went to more than 100 people—and got paid enough for it to buy my books for my final semester of college.

This was the year I graduated college, twenty-six years after I began. The year I finished my long-postponed dream …and then found I had no idea what next.

This was the year I made a complete change of plans in 48 hours in mid-May about grad school. I took the leap, and by all signs so far, after ten days of summer residency, one fall semester, more than ten books read (I’ve lost count -it’s all on my Goodreads profile…), and about 100 pages of writing and revision later, it’s been worth it.

This was the year we finally went to a U2 concert. Pretty good graduation/anniversary celebration, if you ask me, and a fairly effective balm for that sense of disappointment with my home country.

This was the year that I found myself, in early November, remembering the November before when I sat in class, pushing away the looming question: “where will I be next year?” This November, I sat in nearly the same seat in the same room, overwhelmed with relief and something like joy because I finally had the answer, and it was a good one.

This was the year that we brought the two younger ones home to do school, and decreased our family’s stress level by over half. This year we spent time finding a new normal, a new routine with a cleaner house and more home-cooked meals and probably a little too much time spent at home.

Anno Domini 2017 was a year of dreams granted, blessings overwhelming. If I had to, I think I’d be okay with doing it again, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Soli Deo gloria.


Culture, Criticism, and Community

Culture, Criticism, and Community

My tank is full.

I’ve spent the last three or so days back at my alma mater, Dordt College, filling my head with information and conversation and my heart with seeing good friends again. This weekend was just what I needed in the middle of a long semester of writing craft analyses and reading and writing and contact only through Skype and message boards. I miss the classroom, some days more than others, but not having that every-day engagement and conversation has left an empty space. I’m grateful for the ability to continue on with my education without having to upend my family’s normal, but sometimes electronic communication doesn’t hold a candle to the experience of in-person communal learning. I’m not about to change my plans, but it’s something I didn’t quite expect, this sense of distance and disconnect I’ve been feeling a little bit lately. It’s been remedied by some outside-of-class contact with my classmates via Facebook and email, but it’s still… well, just not the same. And that’s as it should be, I think.

The two youngers (who are also doing their schooling from home now) are sort of feeling similarly, but we’ve joined a local homeschooling group, which has helped the isolation a bit, and Amaryah’s been active on the school’s online student center message boards, making some new friends there. I think we’re all glad to be at home, all glad that we can even do this together (grateful for cocoa and coffee available on demand in the kitchen while we study), glad for the time that we’ve all spent on the road getting to school and back returned to our own use, glad for not having to deal with forgetting papers and misunderstandings, glad for the slower pace and the grace of home, but I’m reminded of the importance of intentionally engaging community after this weekend.

So, exactly what did I do this weekend? It took me a bit to catch on to what this whole thing was about. When I read about it at first, months ago, all I had to do was read “Dordt… conference… English department… student discount…” and I was running for the calendar. But I wasn’t entirely sure what it was about until I got a copy of the schedule and actually arrived. I might be reducing the scope a bit, but the sessions and lectures revolved around literary and cultural criticism from a Christian standpoint. How’s that for an abstract concept? So, what does that mean in plain English? It means we spent the weekend engaging with people in the profession of writing, teaching, and making films, music, and art, listening to how they, as people of faith, did what they did in light of being faithful followers of Christ, artists, educators, and writers of excellence, and people in a world and culture(s) impacted by the far-reaching influence of sin and corruption in the world. How do we as makers remain faithful to making good art that honors Christ and challenges our readers and viewers? How do we as readers and viewers discern what is good, powerful art that’s worth our time? How do we faithfully engage issues like underrepresented and oppressed groups (People of Color, other cultures, minority genders, other sexual orientations) in what we consume and create? It was also just a great time of getting together with My People –old friends, former professors, and other reading/writing/art-making people.

So, while I’m exhausted (introvert hangover… it’s a Real Thing), my heart and my tank is full, and I’m ready to tackle the next few weeks of the semester challenged, and reminded of just why I write, beside the plain fact that I do it because I simply can’t NOT write. It’s good to be reminded that there are people who are passionate about this vocation of words and images and story, and it’s just my favorite thing in the whole world to see people doing what they were made to do. That was my favorite part of the weekend, being around people in relentless, joyful pursuit of feeling God’s pleasure in the work they do, whether they were students, educators, writers, or creators. Is there really anything that’s better than that?

A letter, to my friends about to return to college

A letter, to my friends about to return to college

It’s starting to look a lot like late August. The cicadas are humming again, the late-summer sun has that intensity that only happens this time of the year, and –though I could’ve been just imagining it– I happened to catch a tree on my drive yesterday just about to glow itself from green to yellow.

And, for the first time in a couple years, I’m not prepping my car for five-day-a-week long drives, loading my backpack for another semester of studies, buying books for another year. I’m missing the rise of energy inside that always comes this time of the year.

I’m done.

Kind of hard to believe –I mean, yes, I’m still doing grad school, but this year I’ll be studying from home. Granted, I’ve been a card-carrying (mortgage-holding, tax-paying) citizen of the Real World for twenty five years now, so the transition back home shouldn’t be this hard …but it is. So, since I can’t go back, I thought I’d send my greetings and wish you a great year and, true to my character, give you a few things to think about.

If you’ve been through this “going back to college” ritual a few times, you know how it goes. By mid-October, all the magic will have worn off and it’ll be back to the hard work of the every day student. You’ll have adjusted to a new living situation, gotten settled, and you might feel tempted to start to let the days slide into each other.


Whether it’s your first year or your fourth (or more), when your feet hit the floor in the morning, try something different this year: greet the Lord, take a deep breath, and place the next twenty-four hours in His hands. Do it whether it feels silly or not. Because these four years are going to be some of the fastest years of your life. Yes, it’s hard, yes, it’s sometimes amazingly so full of joy you feel like your body can’t contain it, sometimes it’s so full of sorrow you aren’t sure how you manage to breathe –but it goes so fast.

For the last two years, after sending my kids off to school and kissing my husband goodbye, I’ve started my days with a long drive in to school praying over the day ahead, parking my car outside the classroom building –the “old door,” you know if you know campus, the one opposite the President’s house–  walked down the path under the crabapple tree, wrapped my hand around that old broad-shouldered brass handle, pulled the door open, and breathed a silent prayer every morning, paraphrased from Psalm 19:14 –

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in Your sight.

I believe that little ritual saved my life a few times. It definitely eased a few difficult days and made me more aware that in every moment, He is present, and the things that seem insurmountable can be taken one moment at a time more easily when you realize this story you’re living isn’t written by yourself.

So, off you go. Have a wonderful year. Know that you are not alone, that the work you do every day matters, whether you “use” that major you’re working on or not. The things you learn here will travel with you through your entire life.

Don’t waste a moment of it. Know that you are loved far beyond the reaches of your fear, and let your voice echo beyond the four years you’re at this place.


centrifugal force: a story in two parts

centrifugal force: a story in two parts


(part 1: written sometime around 5/6/17)

My life in a lot of ways flows like a stream. Mostly, time has flowed along, with the occasional period of rockiness and white water, the stretches where the water flows with such stillness and clarity that you have to look closely to believe it’s really moving at all.

But it’s the eddies that have caught my attention lately.

By eddies, I mean the times life has circled back to a place I’ve been before. I’ve had probably more of those experiences than the average person.

The eddy I’m thinking about mostly now, though, is the one that circled back around in December two years ago. I left college in 1993 for a number of reasons, some of which were a lot more complicated and painful than I realized. It took writing and fine-tuning a difficult essay and making it through this past semester to bring that truth to the surface.

I’ve always viewed this pattern of returning as a gift. It’s a second chance, another opportunity to gather and add to the memories. It goes beyond nostalgia, though. Nostalgia stays in one place, holds the memories frozen in time. I’ve never really understood the attraction. The memories I’ve encountered in my two years back have been overlaid and intertwined with new ones. It’s more like I’m picking up where I left off this time, finishing something left undone. In a sense, Des Moines was somewhat like that.

But this is different.

What is different about it has been occupying my thoughts for the past couple months. My time is about up here. I graduate in May, and I don’t want to leave anything undone. But, yet, I have to be done. I suppose that’s the difficult thing here. I’ve

[This is where I was going to go into how I wasn’t going to continue on with my education… but I stopped writing, for whatever reason.]

(part two: 5/19/17)

But –a lot can happen in a few weeks.

Monday afternoon, I was sitting in the stands at my kids’ track meet –the same track meet, I was thinking to myself, where, between my kids’ events, I mentally wrote a risk-taking revision to a piece that was already bordering on dangerously vulnerable. I took the risk, partly because that hour or so spent at the track meet left me with little over an hour to revise that piece, which I was to read in public that evening. (No pressure.)

And the risk proved a good one, by the reaction of those who had also read the previous, struggling version I’d submitted for workshop the morning before. It may have saved the story, actually.

This year brought another unexpected confrontation with the risk monster. While musing on that memory, I pulled out my phone to check for messages, and found an email from the MFA program I’d been accepted to. Apparently, it seemed, they were still expecting me. Sigh. No big deal, I thought, I’ll call them tomorrow morning and set them straight.

And then, another email. “There was a mistake,” the email said, “we had you in the fiction concentration. That’s been fixed: your new class code is [some number code] with [the prof I would have hand-picked, given the chance].”

My heart about stopped. Suddenly, the whole reason I even decided to take the step to pursue the MFA came together, like my entire educational life flashing before my phone screen. The whole reason, you see, wasn’t to add another three letters (expensive letters, mind you) to my name. It wasn’t to prove I could do it. I wanted to do it so I could use it beyond myself. I wanted to experience writing in community, to be pushed to write something that would make contact with a reader. I wanted the option of teaching in higher ed myself someday.

Sam and I have had a running near-joke for a while that it would be a fun endeavor to find a Native-focused college somewhere –maybe Sinte Gleska or Red Cloud– and teach together. What more exciting thing could there be than to be in a classroom with young people brought up in a world that treasures story and storytelling, and to help them find their own voices, to give them the tools to better tell their own?

I don’t want to give too much away here, but the prof/mentor they had me set up with, I believe, is someone who could uniquely relate to that desire. This had to be God showing off again. Suddenly this whole MFA thing was, again, bigger than my own desire to do it. In two days, a lot of prayer, and a lot of counsel, I decided that there is no real reason beyond fear to postpone pursuing getting my MFA.

The program I’m admitted to, at Augsburg College (soon to be Augsburg University in September) in Minneapolis is a “low-residency” program, meaning I’ll do most of it via online and email correspondence with my mentor(s), and a ten-day summer residency each year. The other amazingly rare thing about this program? They offer a concentration in teaching alongside the main program, something few low-res programs do. This would better equip me to be able to teach at the college level once I finish –a job possibility, as well as a ministry opportunity. And I won’t have to commute further than my own desk, except for the yearly residency. I can be home with my family while I write and read my way through this next adventure.

So, there you have it.

Moral of the story: track meets can be dangerous. Or, maybe better, God is still working beyond my own stubborn resistance and fear.

This is where I should tie in the “centrifugal force” title to the second part. I don’t know… a track is a circle, right? I suppose in a way, I was led back around to the question that put me on the road back to Dordt: what is it that God desires, what do I desire, and is there anywhere that those two things intersect?


six impossible things before breakfast (or graduation -another journal entry)

six impossible things before breakfast (or graduation -another journal entry)

It’s been building for about six months now, this feeling like I just need a good, dambreaking cry. I’ve been on the verge now, a little closer a few times, where my eyes well, but everything stays there, right on the edge.

Happened again the other afternoon, as I was wandering through the campus center. Someone serendipitously managed to schedule too many things at once in the music building, so chorale was forced to practice in the campus center. I wandered over with a few others, and took a seat in the loft overlooking the stage area. And I took a couple minutes, watching the students below, imagining/remembering my own treasured time in chorale.

Though I’d originally not even planned on auditioning, music was part of how I got through, back then. I remember one tough day, receiving some gut-punching news (to me, anyway) over lunch in the commons, going back to my room in West Hall for a good cry, and pulling myself up, taking a deep breath, and heading to chorale practice, where I sang out the rest of my sorrows. I left practice that day feeling healed, and stronger.

And so, I listened the other day, with those memories streaming through my mind. One piece they were practicing centered on Galatians 6:9: “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest of we do not give up.”

Lord knows, I’ve seen plenty of weary days along this journey. Many, many days full to the brim of joy, of gratitude, of being constantly aware of just how unreasonably good God is to me. But there have been days of weariness, days I feel like Robert Francis Weatherbee, days I feel invisible and unnoticed and all I so desperately want is for someone to pull me aside and tell me that they see and they know how hard this is sometimes. But it doesn’t happen most days, and so, I go on. I do the next thing.

And now, the harvest looks pretty ripe from where I stand. Twenty-six years after I began, I will walk the stage in the graduation gown that now hangs in my closet –the same stage on which I once sang gowned in a dress two sizes too big, in a hideous shade of baby blue taffeta, hemmed up five inches, taken in nearly as much, and literally taped to my chest to conceal my poor tailoring skills, because Dutch girls don’t come in 5’2″ bodies. I’ve survived heartbreak, disillusionment with a dream, depression, recovered, and lived to write about it. I’ve changed my major, found a husband, and found my calling. I’ve made lifelong friends and mentors whose companionship and encouragement I’ll treasure even beyond this experience. I have had not just one, but several of my pieces published. I’ve had a review in an academic journal, several pieces published online, and another piece due to appear in a print magazine this month. People have read my work and told me not only that they enjoy reading it, but that it’s been used of God to do His work. What more could I ask?

It was an impossible dream two and a half years ago, that December I first considered going back for real. But the itch to finish wouldn’t go away, and I heard that voice again, that voice I assumed was God, telling me that I would have what I need when I needed it. And now, I come to the finish line. A twenty-six year journey, written with more turns and changes and surprises than I could have ever imagined, but, as always, I see more clearly how I love His stories the best. They have the best endings.

Granted, it’s only one impossible walk I’ll do on the morning of May 5, but it’s made of far more than six impossible things, believed in faith that certainly didn’t come from myself and made reality by strength and passion beyond my own.

The trees are greening, my lawn needs mowing, and the next page turn in my planner lands in May already –one more week and a few days to draw all the marrow out of this experience, breathe it in deep and take it with me for the next turn on the road. I think I’m slowly becoming okay with this. Slowly.