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What I didn't know about Vikings: Review of God's Daughter by Heather Day Gilbert

October 23, 2013

I’ve read a lot of books across a lot of time periods, but I think I can safely say that reading this book was a first for me.

God’s Daughter by Heather Day Gilbert is a story about Vikings. Not only that but about a Viking woman who’s a Christian. If there are two words I wouldn’t think to put together it’s “viking” and “Christian.” Because let’s face it, my knowledge of Vikings is purely stereotypical. (I’m thinking of those Capital One credit card commercials, and of course, the football team that is a mortal enemy of my beloved Chicago Bears. But I digress.)

It didn’t matter to me what else the story was about. That the main character was a Christian Viking woman was intriguing enough for me to want to read it. (Disclaimer: I received an electronic advance reader copy of God’s Daughter from the author in exchange for my review.)

And oh, was I glad I did. (And is that not the most gorgeous cover? Wow.)

Written in a beautiful, believable first-person point of view, God’s Daughter is the story of Gudrid, a Viking woman on a voyage to the New World with her husband, Finn, and a crew of Viking men (and a few women). She’s a leader in her own right, a daughter-in-law of Eirik the Red, and the first documented European woman to have a child in North America. She’s passionate and also tortured by her own feelings for other men in her life.

I couldn’t look away. I felt like I knew Gudrid and got a real sense of her struggles and vulnerabilities. She was a Viking who lived centuries ago, but her struggles aren’t all that different from women today. We want to take care of the people we love. We want to support our husbands. We want to use our gifts and callings for the good of the community. So relatable.

My only complaint is that I felt it ended a little abruptly. BUT, it’s the first in a series, so there’s hope for more great Viking adventures. (And endings are hard. As a writer, I know this. It was not enough to spoil the book.)

After reading this, I’m so upset that I know next to nothing about the Vikings and this time period. Such a fascinating era of history. (And FYI, Heather self-published this book because apparently Vikings don’t sell. Such a shame. Because this story is unique and well-written. I, for one, crave a story unlike others I’ve read.) The book releases November 1 (not that long!) and if you’re the e-reader type, add this to your to-read list and then remember to go get a copy.

You can learn more about Vikings and keep up on the author’s writing news at her web site.

5 on Friday: Ways to show love to your local library

October 18, 2013

I’ve long been a fan of the local library, and now with a kindergartener in school, I’m learning to appreciate the school library, too. If you don’t already frequent your community’s library, what are you waiting for? Books, movies, CDs, classes, programs … most have a lot to offer. And if you, like me, could live at the library, here are five ways you can show your library some love.

1. If you’re a book ~~hoarder~~ collector, weed through your personal stash and donate a box of books to the library. I did this, this week, and it felt good to make space for more books in our house, and I hope, to give the library access to useful titles. Even if they can’t put them on the shelves, they can sell them to earn money for the library.

2. And speaking of a book sale, your library probably has one! (Maybe more than one.) It’s a great place to get cheap books, and you’re supporting the library with your purchase. I’ve found these sales to be heavy on popular fiction, but we’ve scored cookbooks and kids’ books at a great price. It’s like a treasure hunt!

3. Volunteer. I spent a couple of hours in the school library this week weeding their stacks for books that haven’t been checked out in five years or more. For me, this was the perfect volunteer job. Low interaction with people. Task-oriented. I had fun. No, really. But even if that’s not your thing, your library might have something you can do. I mean, if you know your alphabet, you can reshelve books. I see a lot of older, retired people volunteering at the library, but let’s not let them have all the fun!

4. Write your state legislators and tell them how important your local library is. Library funding is often one of the first things to get cut in tight budget years, but libraries serve an important role in their communities. Every library we’ve frequented has had its own charm, but what I’ve been most thankful for are the services they provide, like storytimes for babies, toddlers and preschoolers. Our current local library branch has a program where a couple from the community brings in their rescued greyhounds and kids can read to the dogs. Our son has gotten over his fear of dogs because of this program.

5. Be kind to your borrowed materials. And to your librarians. I love books more than I love people sometimes, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be around people. Librarians work hard for what I assume is not a lot of pay, and as the economy struggles, they’re expected to provide more and more services. Also, I was super impressed by the school librarian today. She wasn’t just teaching kids how to use the library, but how to research and think critically. I was saddened that some of the books that hadn’t been checked out in a while were classics, and that so many of the popular books are based on television shows. I don’t want to sound dramatic, but libraries are an integral part of shaping the next generation. Along with teachers, librarians have a great responsibility to society. If nothing else, get your local librarian a Starbucks card for Christmas just to say thanks.

What other ways have you found to support your local library?

When a Christian and an atheist talk about salvation, it's no joke: Review of Saving Casper by Jim Henderson and Matt Casper

October 16, 2013

When I read a book last summer by Jim Henderson on women in the church, I knew I liked his style. He asks questions not many people are asking and has a unique approach to spiritual discussions. I’d heard about his book, written with Matt Casper about Casper’s impressions of churches they visited across the country. (Casper is currently an atheist.) I’ve yet to read that book but couldn’t pass up the follow-up, Saving Casper: A Christian and an Atheist Talk about Why We Need to Change the Conversion Conversation. (I received a free digital copy of the book from Tyndale House Publishers in exchange for my review.)

In Saving Casper, the pair team up to talk about conversion–evangelism specifically. After the first book was published and the duo spoke at churches, people asked if Casper was saved yet. After all, he’d been hanging out in churches and talking with Christians. The book is the answer to the question, and I’m not spoiling anything by saying this: he’s not. Casper refers to himself as “currently an atheist,” and I find that phrasing refreshing. I don’t know that I would ever call myself “currently a Christian,” but I think realizing that beliefs and viewpoints can change over time is useful.

Casper and Jim talk openly about heaven, hell, grief, and friendship in the context of evangelism. It’s a fascinating look at Christianity from the outside, and I found myself laughing (with embarrassment) about how the church tries to reach people outside the church. Casper’s insights are refreshingly honest and–this might surprise you–sound a lot like what we read in the Bible.

His advice for people who are worried about family members who don’t know Jesus is this:

“Simply care about people–and let them know you care in terms they can relate to. Letting them know you care about how they’re doing today, rather than telling them your concerns about where they’ll spend eternity, is far more appreciated and endlessly more effective if you’re hoping to someday see that person ‘saved.'”

It boils down to relationships and listening, not scare tactics or fire-and-brimstone damnation. Casper describes it as the difference between a push and a pull. A push (believe in Jesus or you’re going to hell!) does exactly what it says it does–pushes people away. A pull, however, draws people in. It’s like radical love, serving people and listening with genuine interest to what other people believe.

Even as I reflect on the book, I know it’s not a popular message among evangelicals. But I think it’s fair to say that what we’ve been doing isn’t working anyway, so maybe it’s time to listen to some outsider perspective. Casper doesn’t tell Christians not to believe in God; he calls us out, saying if we really do believe in God, our actions should reflect it.

I may not agree with everything Casper says in the book, but he’s worth listening to because 1) he’s another human being and 2) he’s got a unique perspective on evangelical Christianity.

It wasn’t a quick read for me because I needed time to think about what they were saying. It’s a good–but convicting–look at the church in practice. And also full of grace. I’m not sure there’s another book like it.

When being on fire means someone gets burned {a synchroblog and book review}

October 15, 2013

Today’s post is a combination link-up with Addie Zierman, whose memoir When We Were on Fire, releases today and a review of the book. (I received a free copy from the author in exchange for my review.) Check out the other posts in this synchroblog here.

“You can’t be a Christian unless you believe God created the world in six days!”

“Then I will NEVER be a Christian!”

Fifteen years later, I still cringe when I remember this exchange.

And it’s not just the words I said but the way I said them. I was so sure this was true. So convinced of its rightness. At the time, I thought I was acting out of love, attempting to passionately persuade the other person to see the truth.

But I think it was me who was blind.

—

I was home from college, a new Christian emerging from the protective cocoon of a campus fellowship group and learning to spread my wings in–but not of– the world. I was working for my hometown newspaper and had been assigned to cover an outreach event at a nearby church. The details are fuzzy to me now: why this event merited coverage at all. But there I was, sitting in a church gym reporting on a group of men who performed feats of strength while proclaiming the power of God.

The Power Team.

They ripped phone books in half. Bent bars with their teeth. And I don’t even remember what else. But I was caught up in the boldness and exuberance of it all, thinking this is what it must be like when God works mightily in your life.

It was the kind of outreach event that churches gravitated toward at the time: flashy and enticing. It would get people in the door to hear the message of good news, and once inside they would be unable to resist the altar call to give their lives to Jesus.

This was the event that preceded my all-or-nothing declaration. It was an argument, pure and simple. And though it didn’t have the intended result–conversion–I still felt I’d won.

Because I was learning what it was to be a Christian. And not just any Christian. An evangelical Christian. And by the very name, we were supposed to tell others about Jesus. And do it boldly and unashamedly because we wouldn’t want Christ to deny us if we’d denied him before men. So, that’s what I did. It didn’t matter that the person didn’t believe. It didn’t matter that I’d felt rejected and sad. Because I’d done my part. (Right?) I’d proclaimed the good news. (Hadn’t I?)

Now, I’m not so sure.

—

Fast forward 10 years. I’m a married woman with a baby living 800 miles from my hometown. My husband is in his first year of seminary at a school that has the word “evangelical” in the name.

He comes home one day after an Old Testament class and tells me this: his professor, a doctor who has studied the Old Testament his entire life, isn’t sure the world was literally created in six days.

My husband couldn’t have surprised me more if he’d told me the world was really flat.

I panicked and wondered if we’d made a mistake coming to seminary. (We hadn’t.) If it would ruin our faith. (In a way, it did.) If we would start to doubt everything. (At times, we have.)

Because he had a relationship with the professor, my husband was more easily convinced. I clung to what I’d been taught in my early days of Christianity, and we didn’t talk about it much.

—

In the middle of seminary, everything changed. We hit a crisis point in our marriage. We met faithful people with different theological beliefs from us. And we felt the “firm foundation” of our evangelical faith shift underneath us.

I don’t call myself anything anymore except a woman trying to follow Jesus. I don’t vote party lines but my conscience. I try not to argue points but listen to differing ideas. I still do it poorly.

But I’ve burned others and I’ve been burned, so when I think of being “on fire” now I picture a warm campfire and not a blazing forest fire.

—

I have felt guilty for the changes that have happened. But when I read a book like Zierman’s, I feel less so. Her “memoir of consuming faith” makes me feel a little more normal, and her faith journey’s timeline is similar to my own. There are parts of the book I feel like I could have written. It is funny, at times, and heartbreaking. I found myself nodding a little too vigorously and wanting to cry because our pains were similar.

I read it in two days, and I would read it again just to underline and make notes about the journey.

At points in the book, Zierman switches from first-person (I) to second-person (you), and though it’s unconventional it was absolutely essential to this story. Because it’s not just her story. It’s our story. And those second-person passages drew me in and helped me connect to my own part of the story. (My only caution is: if cursing bothers you, then don’t pick up the book. It’s not gratuitous but there are words that some might find offensive. I think Zierman was responsible in her use of them for the sake of authenticity.)

You can also read Zierman’s writing on her blog, How To Talk Evangelical.

And today, you can read others’ stories of triumph and tragedy within evangelicalism. Feel free to share your own, as well.

Where there is darkness and light

October 10, 2013

I was slow to get moving yesterday, drinking coffee, waiting for laundry to dry, reading blogs and Facebook posts after taking our daughter to the bus. There was upsetting news about the government shutdown. About people not getting paid for their work. And about programs like WIC running out of funding until the shutdown is over. I thought of all the days we’ve relied on WIC to provide healthy, nourishing food for our family. I thought of how those who are food insecure would get a little more insecure with the news. How going to the grocery store is drudgery for me, especially when I’m using WIC checks because they take more time and there’s almost always a delay or a problem.

I left for the grocery store bearing burdens too heavy for my shoulders.

—

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was moving over the surface of the waters. Then God said, “Let there be light”; and there was light. God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness. God called the light day, and the darkness He called night. And there was evening and there was morning, one day.

Genesis 1:1-5

Photo source: Carlos Koblischek via Stock Exchange

—

I pulled my van into the Aldi parking lot and dug out my quarter for the cart. I was mercifully alone on my grocery errand, the boy at home with his dad so I could be quick about restocking our shelves. I opened the hatch to find our reusable bags when the man with the broken English approached.

“You are going into the Aldi?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Come, follow me. I give you my cart free.”

I closed the back of the van and followed him to his car. I briefly wondered if this was wise but the parking lot was full and it was daylight. I watched him unpack a few things into his car. He gestured for me to take the cart. I held out my quarter and he shook his head.

“Thank you,” I said. “Have a great day.”

I walked into the store a little lighter for the kindness.

The days may be dark, but here was a glimmer of light.

—

I filled the cart, checking it against my list, grateful for the chance to take my time and make decisions slowly. I was halfway through the store when I noticed her. She was agitated and looking for her friend to borrow a phone. With her Access (food stamp) card in one hand, she furiously dialed and punched in numbers to check her balance. I’d made the same call a day earlier, checking to see if our monthly allotment had been distributed in the chaos of government bureaucracy. I’m forever fearful that I’ll get to the checkout with a cart full of groceries and not be able to pay because of a technological glitch.

I watched out of the corner of my eye as she was visibly upset with the result of her call. I don’t know the circumstances or lifestyle of the woman but I know what it is, at least in part, to stare at empty pantry shelves and wonder when and how you’re going to put a meal together.

My mind immediately leaps to the worst-case scenario, and as I looked at my cart, I wondered if maybe there was a problem after all and maybe I wouldn’t be able to pay for my groceries.

I walked on in faith, paid for my groceries and bagged them, grateful that another trip to the grocery store was done.

—

When I got to the car, I checked my phone. Even though it’s October and I’ve had less than a handful of calls from our daughter’s school, I’m still paranoid that she’ll need something during the day and I’ll miss the call.

I saw an e-mail instead. An urgent prayer request. A tragic loss.

No, no, no, no, no, no, no.

I said the words out loud.

In the beginning there was darkness. And there was light. And I wondered if God could have made a world without darkness.

—

I tire quickly of the darkness. I avoid the news. I keep to the safety of the neighborhoods I know. I shut my eyes to the horrors of the world because it is too much to bear. Too much darkness. Not enough light. Never enough light.

Photo source: Andrey Gorshkov via Stock Exchange

I tire quickly of my darkness, the black parts of my heart that seep out through my words and actions. I forget that the story doesn’t end with darkness.

You are the light of the world.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light.

The city has no need of the sun or of the moon to shine on it, for the glory of God has illumined it, and its lamp is the Lamb.

—

In the beginning there was darkness. But the Spirit of God was moving. Light was being born.

There is darkness, yes, but there is light and it is us, and we are pushing back the darkness one kindness, one act of love at a time.

For the days when you're wishing for Downton Abbey: Review of The Governess of Highland Hall by Carrie Turansky

October 9, 2013

It’s that time of year where we Americans who are waiting for the return of Downton Abbey are jealous of the Brits (and select Canadians) who are already into season 4 of the PBS Masterpiece series.

If you’re in need of something to occupy your time, I’d suggest Carrie Turansky’s new book, The Governess of Highland Hall. (Disclaimer: I received a free copy of the book from Waterbrook Multnomah’s Blogging for Books program in exchange for my review.)

Julia Foster has been serving with her parents as missionaries in India. When they are forced to return to England because of her father’s health, Julia takes a job as governess of Highland Hall. Sir William Ramsey, a widower and the estate’s new master, is in over his head trying to save the property from financial ruin while trying to manage his two young children and his teenage nieces.

From Julia and William’s first meeting, I felt like this story was part The Sound of Music, part Downton Abbey. Both are stories I love, but I couldn’t decide if I loved this story or not. The setting is alluring, of course, because it’s England in the early 1900s and it’s a manor house, which I will always find enchanting.

But there are a lot of similarities to Downton. I found myself picturing characters from the show in place of characters of the book. That’s not entirely a downside because to me, that shows that the author has done her research and has accurately portrayed the time period. There are also some additional points of view besides the main characters. It didn’t thrill me. There are subplots in the story, and the extra POVs, like from one of the maids and the head housekeeper, are necessary to tell those stories, I guess, but I thought it was only okay.

Toward the end of the book, the action built to a point that I couldn’t put the book down, so I’m glad I stuck with it for that.

Overall, though, I found the plot fairly predictable and the story just okay. Again, if you want to relive the high points of Downton Abbey, this is a good book for that. If you’re looking for something fresh, I’d look elsewhere.

Why I want to hold your hand

October 8, 2013

The day was warm and sunny, unusually so for the season we were in. On a whim, we decided to go to the park. My husband dropped us off on his way to work, so we would only have to walk one way and be home in time to meet the bus. crane

My son played on the playground equipment, and some sort of water bird glided over our heads and landed in the shade of a weeping willow tree.

The sun in its warmth, the light breeze in its refreshing, the bird in its beauty–all remarkable. But what I remember most about that day is holding hands.

—

Our son is almost 4. When our daughter the kindergartener was this age, she began asserting her independence. She was ready to be in school years before her age allowed her, and I clearly remember the “I don’t need your help” battles. It was a confusing time for me, as a stay-at-home mom who sometimes wished she wasn’t. It is good, I would tell myself, that she doesn’t need me so much. But if she didn’t need me anymore, then what would my purpose be?

Fortunately, our son, the baby of the family, is spoiled by his mother who now has him most days all day by himself. Even when I’m tired and frustrated by his needs, I still say “yes” because some days I’m still not ready. The transition to stay-at-home motherhood was a long, tough battle for me, and the transition to kids-in-school-now-what-do-I-do is approaching.

And I find myself filled with expectation and dread.

It’s a dichotomy I can’t reconcile–wanting to be needed and wishing I wasn’t needed so much.

—

“I don’t need you hand.”

We walked into the school for kindergarten orientation and these were my daughter’s words as I reached for her. No, I thought. I suppose you don’t. But maybe, just maybe, I need yours.

—

“I need your hand.”

These are the words I hear most often from him. At times, they are part of a dramatic meltdown that only a gesture of hand-holding can solve. This day, it was a sincere request as we made our way home.

We walked home from the park that warm autumn day on tired legs. For all the energy he exudes, my son was dragging. It is no short walk. Manageable for a relatively healthy adult. Exhausting for preschool legs.

I am not a dawdler when it comes to walking. If there is a destination, I walk with purpose, closing the distance between here and there as quickly as possible. Some days I notice it. Most days, it’s just habit.

We left the park in plenty of time to be home for the bus’ arrival from school, yet I still felt myself wanting to hurry.

His hand in mine, we were forced to walk at his pace, much slower than my anxious hurry preferred. We took it slow. We stopped to rest when his legs needed a break. And each time we started walking again, his hand found mine.

—

“We will walk with each other, we will walk hand in hand …”

It was a recent Sunday that we’d sang the words to this neglected hymn in church. I remember in years past singing this song and actually holding hands during the singing. It is strange, at first, to hold hands with the people who sit in the pews near you. People who aren’t your relatives or spouse or children.

But it is an act of connection. A fleshly reminder of the humanity that surrounds you.

Holding hands while praying was something I often dreaded in my early Christian days. It felt intimate, even without fingers laced, and I was always self-consciously aware of whose hand I would be holding, like it was a proposal of marriage or something.

What I remember about those days is what I learned when I held someone’s hand. There were cold hands needing warmed. Rough hands reflecting a hard day of work. Dry hands in need of lotion. (Mine almost always are.) Sweaty hands in need of reassurance. Small hands needing a delicate touch. Large hands exuding strength.

No matter what the hand was like, there was a person connected to it, and eventually the hand holding became a normal part of our gathering.

—

My husband and I held hands a lot in our dating years and the first year of marriage. Then babies, diaper bags and children filled our hands and we slowly drifted from the practice.

As our kids get older, they like to hold hands with each other, and my husband and I are rediscovering the art of hand holding. One of the sweetest things I witness is an older couple, hands wrinkled, aged and still joined. I want to walk through these years of marriage still holding hands with the one I love.

—

When I hold my son’s hand, I am reminded to slow down.

When I hold my husband’s hand, I remember we are in this together.

When I hold my daughter’s hand, I remember that holding hands isn’t always about needing to; sometimes it’s about wanting to.

As a follow of Jesus, I want to hold the hands of my brothers and sisters when they’re weary, walking in step with them, not dragging them along to the next stop on the journey. I want to reach out and squeeze their hands to remind them we’re in this together. I want to offer my hand, not in a handshake as if we were doing business, but as one human connecting with another without words.

—

I will think of these things when we’re together and my insecurity will tell me I shouldn’t because maybe it’s too much touching. For whatever reason, there are some of us (I am one of them) who bristle at the touch of others. Maybe we’re fragile and fear that a touch will break us. Maybe we’ve been touched unkindly one too many times. Or maybe we’ve lacked touch and don’t even know that we’re missing it.

I’m slowly recovering my need for human contact.

My attempts will be hesitant at first. A pat on the shoulder. An uninvited hug. A squeeze of the hand.

Just know that what I really want to do is hold your hand.

'The dearest of friends': Review of Rebellious Heart by Jody Hedlund

October 2, 2013

I make it no secret that I love, love, love the stories that come from Jody Hedlund’s brain. (She doesn’t pay me to say that; I’d say it for free. But I did get a free copy of the book in exchange for my review.)

What a treat to have a second new release from her this year, Rebellious Heart. (If you missed my review of A Noble Groom, you can find it here.)

I thought that one would be hard to top, and it was. Is. In fact, I was a little disappointed when I finished Rebellious Heart because it didn’t leave me with the same sigh-worthy feelings as A Noble Groom.

So I did something I rarely do with any book: I read it again. In the same week.

Because I knew it was a good story, but I felt like I had missed it. And what I learned in the re-reading is that this story crafted by Hedlund is almost like a symphony. I’m no music expert, but I know it takes a trained ear to discover the nuances of all the instruments working together. I think the same could be said of this book. In Rebellious Heart, there’s a story on the surface: a fictional re-creation of the courtship of John and Abigail Adams. (In the book their names are Ben Ross and Susanna Smith.) They have history with each other, unpleasant at times, with similar obstacles to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice. We see their relationship change and bloom in 1760s Massachusetts, and overall, it is an enchanting love story.

On second reading, I appreciated the little things so much more. John and Abigail Adams are known for their letters to each other, showing a sweet love that spanned five decades. They referred to each other as “the dearest of friends.” In the book, Ben and Susanna often trade witty comments in a sort of intelligent flirtation. It’s the sort of romance that is based on intellectual stimulation as well as physical attraction, the former adding to the latter. As a lover of words, I savored their exchanges.

Ben takes notice early in the book.

The intelligence and decisiveness of her responses were like a shot of energy in his veins. There was something entirely refreshing about a young woman who wasn’t afraid to voice her thoughts and spar intelligent words with a man. Most women he’d met didn’t have the slightest interest in the latest political situation involving the king, nor did they have any thoughts about treason or anything else important. (33)

They wrestle not only with their feelings for each other but with the laws of England and whether to obey the king and his soldiers.

Here, I think, is where the beauty of the book lies. While the story of their courtship is heartwarming and sweet, knowing what is to come for the couple (revolution, war, danger), makes their relationship that much more meaningful.

I had goosebumps reading these words from Susanna:

Perhaps I need to have more faith that God will use me someday to be a steady light for someone going through a dark travail. (89)

Whether Abigail Adams said those words or not, she would indeed be that for her husband in the days and months leading up to the Revolution.

If you have even a casual interest in the Revolutionary War era, I recommend this book. It wasn’t my favorite time period when I married my husband, but his favorite musical is 1776, and I have to say, the time period is growing on me. (Confession: The actor who plays John Adams in the movie version of 1776 was the man I envisioned, sort of, for Ben Ross as I read. I think that’s a compliment to Hedlund, as she has captured Adams’ mannerisms and speech patterns, as portrayed in other stories of his life.)

And if you’re a fan of historical romance, I’d recommend it as well, although it has a bit of a different feel to it than some historical romance I’ve read. Not a bad difference at all.

I always look forward to what’s next from Hedlund, and Rebellious Heart has left me wanting more.

When the lost are found (and found again)

September 30, 2013

She gripped the hand of a stranger as tears streamed down her face. Her name had just been announced over the PA system. She was lost. Looking for her mother.

And I couldn’t take my eyes off of her.

My son and I were in the petting zoo at the fair, just feet from where she stood. I, too, began looking for someone, anyone, to claim her.

Minutes passed. Too many minutes, I thought.

Was she part of a school group?

Did anyone know she was missing?

My son was tugging my hand to move on, but I wanted to know how it ended.

I had to know she was going to be found.

—

Philippians 1:6: “Being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion, until the day of Christ Jesus.”

It was one of the first Bible verses to ever “speak” to me.

I was a new Christian, not unlike the little girl, lost and alone in a big, scary world, looking for someone to save me. I looked in a few wrong places before I found the Savior.

I used to think it was He who found me, but when I think about it like that, it sounds like He didn’t know where I was.

He always knew.

It was me who didn’t know I was lost.

But being found was just the beginning.

—

A second announcement over the loudspeaker for the lost little girl. The fear in her eyes was building.

What if no one comes for her?

I thought of my daughter, a kindergartener, who knows her name and address and her parents’ names. This girl was younger. She knew her first name, but what if they needed more information?

My mother’s heart began to worry. One of my fears is my kids being separated from me. I was grateful for the two women who left what they were doing to stand with the girl while they waited for someone to claim her. I hoped I would do the same thing if the need ever arose.

I wanted to do something. But everything they could do was being done.

—

I’m a quick learner. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that I catch on quickly. In school, I could give you the “right” answer faster than anyone else in the class, even if I never learned a thing. I sped through homework and tests just to get them done, hardly recalling the information I regurgitated onto the page.

I learned quickly, too, that in some Christian circles, there are right and wrong answers, right and wrong ways to live. And even though I was new to this world, I quickly caught on to the “right” way of doing things. I voted the way I “should.” I believed what I was told. I listened to the (unofficially) approved teachings of popular pastors. I got rid of all my “secular” music. After all, I was a new creation, and my life needed to reflect that.

It wasn’t until many years later that I would realize that all of those efforts left me empty. When life didn’t turn out like I thought it would. When I didn’t change in the ways I thought I should. When I felt guilty for wanting more than what I had in life. Hadn’t I been found? What was I doing wrong?

—

My son and I were just about to move on to the exhibits inside the tent when I heard the good news. A cowboy-type gentleman came running over to the little girl and said, “Come with me. I’ve found your mom.” The girl hesitated, but he gently persisted.

Then I saw her.

The mom.

She was running as fast as her legs could carry her with a baby backpack strapped to her. She wiped tears of relief from her face as she scooped up her daughter and hugged her.

I looked away lest I start swimming in my own pool of tears. I took one more look and everyone was smiling. The women who had held her hand. The mom. The little girl. A smile found its way to my mouth, and my heart lifted.

What was lost was found.

—

If you’re ever separated from your family, stay in one place.

I still think about this advice when I’m out with my family or friends. I’m prone to wander. Even as an adult, I don’t stay in one place very well. Sometimes we split up to keep the kids occupied. Or to take one of them to the bathroom. And I’m forever fearful of being left behind. (I would be the worst field trip chaperone, but I still want to go to the zoo with my daughter’s class.)

I don’t know how the little girl became separated from her mother. Maybe she got really interested in one of the animals when it was time to move on and didn’t notice her mother leaving.

I was captivated by my new faith, so busy watching and learning about the “right” way to live that I didn’t realize it was time to move on.

Like the lost little girl, the familiar was gone and I was standing with strangers, desperately wanting to be found again.

Time passed painfully slowly, and I wondered if God had given up on me. Did He even know I was lost?

I thought about going to search for Him but remembered another piece of advice: When you don’t know what to do next, do the last thing God said.

So, I waited. Even when it felt like I was stuck.

And I barely dared to hope when others would say: “He’s right over there! Come with me!”

But they were right. Like a mother frantically searching for her lost child, God found me again.

Right in the place where I lost Him.

—

My son and I wandered through a tent full of exhibits and spotted a collection of antique tractors outside. We separated from our group to walk past each one and snap a few pictures. “For Papa,” my son said.

We were coming up the final row when I caught a glimpse of blond hair. I turned and saw the little girl who had been lost, sitting on a blanket with her mom, eating a sandwich. They looked like a happy family enjoying a picnic lunch. No one passing by knew the trauma of their separation, less than an hour earlier.

But I would guess it’s something neither of them will quickly forget.

—

So it is with me.

Lost. Found. Wandering. Found again.

I do not doubt my relationship to Jesus, but I can’t say for certain that I won’t lose my way, in some way, again. I am so easily distracted. So easily led astray. So eager to do the right thing. So sure of the path.

I am a sheep in need of a shepherd.

The word I heard all those years ago, that God would complete His work, is speaking to me still.

What He started, He will finish. And it will take time.

—

I remember what it is to be lost.

I remember what it is to be found.

Lord, have mercy, if I ever forget.

When I say the word 'feminist': Review of Jesus Feminist by Sarah Bessey

September 25, 2013

Let’s play a game. I’m going to write a word in the next paragraph, and I want you to think about how that word makes you feel. Ready?

Feminist.

So, how are you feeling?

There was a time in my life when I would have scoffed at the word or dismissed it as liberal garbage or thought of angry, pants-wearing women shaking their fists.

In the last few years, some talented writers have changed all of that.

Sarah Bessey is one of them. (You should know that I got a free digital copy of the book I’m about to review in exchange for this post.)

I’m not quite sure how I found her not-so-little corner of the blogosphere, but her tone, her words, her authenticity hooked me from the first reading. She’s now one of those bloggers I can’t wait to read, and I often find myself laughing, crying and nodding in agreement over what she’s written.

When I learned she was writing a book about Jesus feminism (yes, that’s a thing), I was excited to read her thoughts. And a little nervous about the content because, you know, feminism is one of those hot-button words. Dropping it into Christian conversation can sometimes be worse than another “f-bomb” I know.

But, hear me say this: Whatever you think about feminism, set it aside and read this book. Jesus Feminist is so beautifully written I got actual goosebumps while reading it. Because Bessey is passionate, yes, and she’s waded through the muck of patriarchy, but her book is anything but angry. I was almost expecting a manifesto: a how-to for inserting ourselves into the leadership conversation.

I was so wrong. And I’m glad for it.

Jesus Feminist is a loving call to passionately pursue the gifts we’ve been given as women and use them whenever and wherever we find ourselves, regardless of whether we’re given permission by established leaders.

It’s an invitation to join a gathering of sisters, worldwide, who are doing the work of love in the name of Jesus, and cast off the limitations we sometimes give ourselves as wives, mothers, and women.

Encouraging doesn’t begin to describe it, but when I finished, I felt it: encouraged, empowered, emboldened.

I’m no longer sorry I’m a woman who cares about things beyond home and family, and I feel less resentment for women who do care much for those things. We all have a place in the work of the kingdom, and we’re meant to work alongside our brothers in the battle, not be overshadowed by them.

Jesus Feminist celebrates women but not at the expense of men. That’s no easy feat.

This book doesn’t answer every question about women in ministry or feminism or what the Bible says about all that nor does it aim to. What it does is opens the conversation and welcomes the questions.

If you’ve ever thought “Jesus” and “feminist” didn’t belong in the same sentence, I’d encourage you to read this book. It releases in early November, so put it on your to-read list now.

In the meantime, check out Sarah Bessey’s blog for a taste of her writing style.