#TBT Drama Camp

Kate enjoys singing and acting out scenes she's seen—quoting funny lines or imitating inflections she likes. So, we knew that classes at Nashville's children's theatre were an obvious choice. Her first experience was a Fall Break drama camp last month. At her age, the class involved lots of games and imagination exercises.

A few phone pics I snapped at the parents' open class...

 

She can't wait to do more drama classes, and who knows what's in her future?

I did shows all through high school, and did backstage work during college, but way back when, I was just a little deer in a summer drama class, wearing my Brownie uniform pants and a felt headband my mom made. (That's obviously a bunny to my right, an owl to my left, and I think maybe Class of 2001 there was a raccoon?)

And before that, I put on this one-girl-show of Cinderella on our family room hearth. Those teddy bears were my wicked stepsisters!

 

The grand finale, of course, had me in a crown and glass slippers (jellies!) dancing with my Prince Charming Bear!

Both of our recent birthday parties have ended with impromptu shows. We love Kate's dramatics, and whether she sticks to at-home skits, shines on the high school stage, or goes even further, it's great to nurture this interest of hers and grow her confidence and imagination even more!

Scrapbooking before Kids #TBT

I love to look through my scrapbooks—usually, the more recent ones of our family adventures in the last couple years, seeing how much the kids have grown and changed, etc. But recently I picked an older book off the shelf, and I just marveled at all the fun pages I made back before I had kids!

It's not just that most of our ordinary life and fun events involve the kids now (so of course they feature in most scrapbook pages) but I was also forced to get more creative to even find things to scrapbook. See, it's not just about the events getting documented, but the joy of the craft. When I got/get the urge to scrapbook, I'll find things to scrap about. And, of course, I had more free time to spend hours on a page, cutting out tiny embellishments, stamping out the lettering, etc.

2003: I did a whole two-page spread on the church I went to my last two years of college. (This was my stint in the Episcopal church, discovered through the guy I dated my junior year. I kept going and got even more involved after we broke up—and still went out to lunch with his mom sometimes!)

2007: I used a couple pics of Matt and I enjoying cocktails before a friend's wedding to make a page devoted to a "Friends" quote! (Chandler's boss says "There's no I in team," and Chandler quips, "but there are two in martini, so meet me at the bar!)

and like an elderly shut-in with only the weather to talk about, I did a page about the crazy heat that summer! (I tried to fry an egg on the blacktop. It didn't work.)

2008:  The author of the first book I edited was profiled in the paper (with a sidebar about the book) so i scrapped that, of course. The page protector is cut such that you can actually fold out and read the whole article. Opposite that, I did a page devoted to the beloved rabbit I had my senior year of college.

Actually, I did fancy pages about a lot of the special people and creatures in my life. Here's one all about Charlotte, our "first child," so to speak. She was a gift from Matt for Christmas 2004, so she's almost ten years old now. These pics were from around 2006-7, probably, and they were the most recent I could find when I had to make her "Lost Cat" posters in fall 2011. Sad!

 

I did a lovey-dovey page about Matt in 2007 too. Like the cat, Mommy and Daddy don't get a lot of photo love after kids, either. 

 

My dad got some scrapbook love in 2007 when I did a spread about his stint as Kentucky State Parks Commissioner. 

 Sometimes, scrapping was a way to preserve and highlight old photos I had sitting around. These on a page I titled "Pretty Mommy" were of my mom from 1970-71. Love it.

And I honored my grandmother, whose name was passed on from her mother (in center photo) and great-grandmother and is part of Kate's name as well.

I did pages all about our homes in our first years of marriage: the duplex where we first lived, complete with paint samples to show the color scheme of each room!

 

 And the parsonage we lived in from 2007-2011, including not only a sketch of the floor plan, but a flip book of the floor plans of the duplex and Matt's and my apartments in Nashville during our single days.

Finally, the scrapbook page that changed it all. . . yes, I surprised Matt with the news of our first pregnancy via a scrapbook page. The photos and journaling of Matt's reaction were added later, of course, but I actually did have the sticks there on the page when I opened the book and said, "Check out the scrapbook page I did while you were gone!"

Our lives—and my scrapbooks—would never be the same.

This post is linked up with The Mom Creative's "Throwback Thursday Stories" #TBTstories.

Starting School #TBTstories

Linking up with Throwback Thursday Stories on The Mom Creative.
This week: 1987. I was six.

Kate will start kindergarten two months from tomorrow. That's right—early August. (Last year, I think public schools here started July 31, so at least this is a little closer to "fall.") In any case, I'm super excited about her starting "real school." Field trips, school projects, getting to know her teacher, all that fun stuff. I feel like the dorkiest mom out there to be so excited about this, but maybe I'm not alone. Matt's the one who's feeling misty-eyed about this milestone.

The pictures above were from my first day of first grade. I did preschool and kindergarten at a church preschool, so first grade was the start of my elementary school experience, as kindergarten will be for Kate. I don't know if Kate will pose so adorably on the step of the school bus (or even if we'll have her ride the bus in the mornings) but you can bet I'll be taking pics in front of our house with Kate and her little backpack. She'll be wearing a uniform (public schools here do "standard attire") but otherwise, I don't think the scene will look too much different. Lots of things change, but the excitement and sentimentality over the first day of school is a constant.

The Kitchen Table #TBTStories

Throwback Thursday Stories, hosted by The Mom Creative.

Today: 1984. I was turning three.

I recently bought a new kitchen table and chairs. We just got all new kitchen cabinets and countertops too, so I definitely wasn't wanting to spend money on new furniture at the same time, but our old table and chairs were kaput. More accurately, just the chairs, which were falling apart underneath us.

You see, that dining set was my parents' first, purchased when they got married in 1973. It was in my house growing up until I was thirteen, when we moved to a new house and my mom upgraded to a new set. This one sat in the basement for a decade (a well-earned sabbatical after 21 years of service), until I had my first little apartment in grad school. It became mine and has graced Matt's and my kitchens in Nashville, Clarksville, and now back to Nashville.

The table itself and the two chairs in less-bad condition now reside in the playroom, where they will host many hours of puzzles, games, and homework in the years to come. I'm glad not to be tossing the thing entirely, because it has such sentimental value. Forty-one years of family dinners just me and my parents, afternoons of homework throwing my math book across it, and birthday celebrations like the one in the photo above, when I turned three, surrounded by my parents, all four grandparents (such a blessing to have them all live close by), and a great-aunt and -uncle who never had children of their own. This was the crowd that gathered every year on my birthday, and it was always so special.

I chose this photo because you can actually see the style of the chair around my little toddler body. I spotted a similar style when watching the movie American Hustle last night. Such a seventies style, and I won't forget it. We're upgrading and getting with the times now, but the memories made around such a simple thing as the kitchen table will continue to grow with my own kids.

Itchy #TBTStories

This week's Throwback Thursday Story:
Approximately 1987. I was probably six or about to turn six.

This was the kids' musical program at the end of Bible Study Fellowship or Mother's Day Out—something like that, at a Baptist church, I believe. Not our home church. I'm the one in the dress with the red smocking and bow.

Three reasons this picture speaks to me:

1. I'm holding my name tag, rather than wearing it. I've never liked tags, stickers, cause-support ribbons, other things in excess of my clothes being put on me (including bows that were part of my clothes, which is why I disliked this dress, I recall). So I declined to have my little piece of paper (shaped like a sheep, I believe, though I can't quite tell from the picture) pinned to me. That's so me.

2. I'm itching my bottom. I don't believe this dress is particularly scratchy. It's hanging in Kate's closet now, along with several other childhood dresses my mom saved, and I can verify it has no crinoline or other stiff lining. So I don't know what the problem was, but something bugged me. Something other than the name tag I was holding instead of wearing. Maybe it was the bow at my neck, psychosomatically itching my bottom.

3. There are three Jessicas in this picture. Such children of the '80s. The girl at the far left and the girl in the shorts and sneakers two kids to my right also have "Jessica" name tags. Amazingly, I don't see any Jennifers. There were four Jennifers in my fourth grade class. Sarah, Beth, and Brittany (the other girls' names I can make out in the picture) were pretty popular 1980s names as well.

I've always prided myself on having a great memory, and I honestly feel like I can remember this day, wearing the red dress that I liked less than my similarly-styled blue dress (also hanging in Kate's closet), and declining to have the paper pinned to me. Or perhaps it just feels that way because this photo captures such a "me" moment. Love it.

Falling Down #TBTStories

Throwback Thursday Stories is a new link-up series being hosted on The Mom Creative.  
This week: Summer 1986. I was five. 
 
I've got a running theme so far with these Throwback Thursday Stories, as two weeks ago I shared the story of a socially awkward rollerskating party I attended in middle school, and this week I have another rollerskating-related story.

Not quite two weeks ago—two days after sharing that awkward party story, in fact—I took Kate rollerskating. It was her second time skating (fifth or sixth, if you count ice skating), and she still struggled a bit to stay upright. She kept getting frustrated, going so slowly, shuffling along with her little PVC-pipe walker thing the beginners can use, and wanted to sit down for a break after practically every lap.

I could see how discouraged she was getting, despite the fact that there were plenty of big kids, even teens and adults, struggling to keep their balance and falling down. She didn't want to try anymore, because she wasn't succeeding right away.

As she sat on a carpeted bench (not much has changed in roller rinks in 21 years), staring down at her skates, I sat on the floor in front of her and told her a story. It was the story of this picture, in fact.

I got my first pair of roller skates for my fifth birthday. They were the adjustable kind that strapped on right over your shoes. These were metal, though Fisher Price started making those blue plastic ones with the orange wheels around the same time, I believe. I tried them out on the smooth garage floor and my dad took pictures. Somewhere in that first try, I lost my balance. I probably fell down. A few times. I don't know. All I know is Dad caught that blurry photo of me struggling to regain my balance.

I told Kate about that day when I first tried rollerskating, but more importantly, I told her about the day weeks later, when Mom got the photos developed and I saw that picture of me falling down, my blurry hand flailing for balance. I hated that photo so much that I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash can. Then, minutes or hours later, I felt so guilty for having thrown it away that I went and fished it out of the trash, smoothed it out as best I could, and put it back with the other photos from the roll. If you look closely, though the photo has been adhered under a page protector and smashed in a heavy album for 28 years, you can see the creases from that temporary crumpling.

The moral of the story, as I told it to Kate, was that we shouldn't be ashamed of losing our balance and falling down, especially when we're just starting to learn a new skill.

As I flipped through my parents' photo albums last week to find this photo, Mom said it looked like I was just dancing, or waving, not falling. Perhaps that is the case, and my hatred of the photo was based just on its blurriness and the unflattering position the camera caught me in. Shame over falling made it a better story for that moment encouraging Kate to get back on her wheels and try again. But shame over how one looks in a photo—or worse, a mirror—will make that story come in handy again, I'm sure, ten years or so down the road.

Who'd You Come With? #TBTstories

Throwback Thursday Stories is a new link-up series being hosted on The Mom Creative. I've been itching to write—really write—since attending the Festival of Faith and Writing last week at Calvin College. And this story is the one itching to come out.

This week: Spring 1993. I was 11.

Middle school haunts many of us, I imagine. But there's a particular moment that haunts me more frequently than others, because the very emotion of that interaction washes over me every time I go to a conference for work, like last week's Calvin Festival. I've been traveling a lot since getting back into book acquisitions last fall, and these events where my goal is to mix and mingle and meet potential authors are an introvert's nightmare.

Beyond the feeling of "please get me away from all these people and back to the isolation of my hotel room!" is the feeling of social awkwardness that plagues me. And a single moment from a sixth grade skating party replays in my mind as I navigate those crowds of strangers.

"Who'd you come with?"

This question was posed to me by a cooler classmate as we hung around the perimeter of our local rollerskating rink, Champs Rollerdrome. The walls were lined with carpet to ease the pain of impact for less skilled skaters, and above the carpeted portion were oversized pennants featuring the names of many area middle schools. (Champs knew its role as a "safe" drop-off spot for preteens who longed to socialize away from parents' watchful eyes.) I don't remember if our school was featured on one of those neon pennants, but I know there was one with the name of the private school to which I would transfer a blessed sixteen months later—a smaller school, at which a quiet, dorky girl like me could still end up as class president and editor of the yearbook.

My 8th birthday party at Champs. Amazingly, my experiences there could get more awkward than that super-eighties crimped side ponytail.

It was a birthday party for two or three classmates, one of whom I'd been in Brownies with years before and saw fit to invite me even though my place on the social ladder of sixth grade society was a few rungs below her, and even further below her co-birthday-girls.

"Who'd you come with?" another girl asked me.

"Jenny invited me," I said.

"No, who'd you ride here with?"

"My parents brought me," I said, suddenly realizing that apparently it wasn't enough to be included on a guest list. If you really fit in, you would have met up with other friends beforehand and been dropped off together by one kid's parent.

Who makes these rules?

My sense of awkwardness and not-belonging reached a whole new level after that conversation. What a strange society that sees making out on a carpeted bench by a carpeted wall, surrounded by staring classmates (as one girl and boy did, later in the party) less a source of oddity than arriving alone to the party? (I can still picture that girl, with her permed, dirty-blond hair, opening her eyes to see the circle of gawkers while she sucked face with that boy.)

Silly as it is, that question, "Who'd you come with?" runs on repeat in my head whenever 32-year-old, professional me navigates the down time between plenaries and breakout sessions at any conference where pastors, Christian writers, angsty ex-fundamentalists—anyone who might make a good author for us—gather. People walk and chat in groups of two or three, and I wonder if I'm the only one who came to the conference alone. Probably not, but could be. Pastors have colleagues that benefit from the same continuing ed events they do. Maybe they caravan and carpool to the convention center or church hosting the conference. Last week's Festival of Faith and Writing draws many non-professional writers and avid readers, friends who make a getaway of coming to hear poetry readings and insights for getting that novel you've secretly been working on for twenty years out of the drawer and into the hands of an editor who doesn't care that you don't have a platform. (Platform doesn't matter as much in fiction, after all.)

Anne Lamott delivered one of the plenaries last week, and referred to a "toxic self-consciousness" from which many of us suffer, comparing our insides to everyone else's outsides. She called out the two uninvited voices in her head: one that says "You're so much better than everyone else," and the other that says "You are a total loser." (After all, self-consciousness is a double-edged sword. Insecurity and superiority are not mutually exclusive.) Her advice was to acknowledge those unwanted guests and move on with a simple, "Thank you for sharing." Those voices don't need to be considered the truth.

"You look so cute today in your new dress, Jessica. You're so much more put-together than that lady in her mom jeans and fanny pack."

"Thank you for sharing. The Gap outlet clearance rack has some good finds, and I'm sure that lady is comfortable and well-equipped."

"You look hopelessly awkward standing there, twiddling your thumbs, waiting to talk to that speaker. Everybody must be thinking what a dork you are."

"Thank you for sharing. I'm doing my job, and there's a long line. Everybody else is probably more worried about what people are thinking of them than about whether I have self-confidence and an active social life."


I fake confidence and even extroversion fairly well, people tell me. But inside, I'm not too much different than that awkward sixth-grade girl being informed of yet another thing to feel awkward about.

"Who'd you come with?"

Just the voices in my head. But don't worry. I'm learning how to shut them up.

Why Fostering Is Like Dating

I wouldn't say I dated a ton before finding my Reverend Charming—one other serious boyfriend and maybe two other relationships that reached the "official" status. (Oh, how thankful I am not to have uttered the term "DTR"—"defining the relationship"— in over a decade!) But those relationships and other steady dates (for lack of a better definition!) brought more than just fun and romance to my life. 

They introduced me to and immersed me in hobbies and characteristics I might never have otherwise given a second thought. And it is that aspect of dating that has come to mind at various times over the course of our first year of fostering. 

I remember the moment my "classic rock education" began, when Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock 'n' Roll" came on the radio while my high school sweetheart and I were in the car, and I guessed that it was Little Richard singing! What followed were many awesome mix tapes that I still enjoy today, and an appreciation for Billy Joel, Paul Simon, James Taylor, and other artists of the 1970s and '80s.

In college, I dated guys with passions for film scoring and musical theatre, and learned a lot from them about Alan Silvestri and John Williams, and a lot of shows less well-known than those in which I played minor roles in high school.

Beyond music, these relationships (and non-relationships) taught me about Tourette's Syndrome (it's not all about swearing), golf, baseball, the Baptist church, the Episcopal Church, cigar-smoking, and various cities around the South from which these young men hailed. Lest this seem like "Runaway Bride," where Julia Roberts doesn't even know what kind of eggs she likes, I hope maybe these fellows learned something about religion, Russia, or language (grammar, linguistics, etymology, etc.) from me. Or maybe not—my interests don't sound as interesting in comparison!

But in our year of fostering, exposure to and relationships with children and adults from different backgrounds and life experiences has taught me things I might not otherwise have immersed myself in. 

Things like:

how African American hair and skin require different care and styling. . . 

how race and poverty are so connected in America . . .

how family members who try to break patterns that fuel the cycle of poverty end up estranged . . .

how the juvenile and family court system works (and where that courthouse is even located in our city) . . .

where education ranks on Maslow's hierarchy of needs (after shelter and stability) . . .

what "white privilege" really looks like (actually, Matt learned that. I'll share that story sometime) . . .

the frustrations of parenting a teenager (oh, curfews and one-word answers!) . . .

the challenges (i.e. multitudes of doctor and therapy appointments) of parenting a special needs child . . .

navigating the prison and criminal court system . . .

how people can have substance abuse problems and criminal issues and still be devoted parents . . .

how thrilling it is to see progress like a 16-month-old child finally able to sit up! (without that boppy, too) . . .

how bizarre it is to get excited over a child nomming a toy or NOT gagging at phlegm in her throat, because dealing with semi-solid stuff in her mouth is a major project in therapy. . .

how vital social services like TennCare and TEIS (Tennessee Early Intervention System) are . . . and more.

BGC gets her hearing aids next week, so we'll start navigating those changes (oh, big girls, please keep the noise down—she can actually hear you now!) and add speech therapy to our weekly regimen of developmental, physical, and feeding therapy.

We're in the home stretch of reunification with BGC's parents, so we're navigating a tricky but very special relationship right now (a double-date, so to speak?) We're going to a training next week about "Working with Birth Parents," and we'll have some positive examples to share, gladly offering a counterbalance to some of the tougher situations our fellow foster parents may have to share.

We entered foster care because we have something to share—a room with a crib and a bed, extra car seats, a modicum of flexibility and openness—but there is so much we gain in the process as well. Namely, a wider view of the world, seeing things that are right under our noses, maybe in a different area of town or different wing of the hospital—so close yet so far away, only because luck and chance and birth have kept it far away.

These relationships aren't forever, but they expand our minds and hearts nonetheless.

Russia with Love

About a year and a half ago, we kicked off the London 2012 summer games with a fun little party for the opening ceremonies. (See my posts about it here and here.) We ate bangers and mash, had a little English tea party, made Olympic torches out of tissue paper, and did some Olympic rings art. We were especially excited for the summer Olympics because Kate had started taking gymnastics and we loved watching the gymnastics competitions.

This time around, we're a little excited to watch figure skating and maybe some of the other events, but the major point of interest for me—and the only thing I really did to enhance our watching of the opening ceremonies—was reminiscing about my foreign study to Russia during college. I had loved Russian history ever since seeing movies about Catherine the Great and Nicholas II when I was eleven or so, and dreamed of going on Furman's study abroad trip to Central Europe and Russia. I spent January and February of 2001 traveling around Russia and several former Soviet bloc countries. It was fascinating and a dream come true. I remember all the beautiful churches and ornate palaces, art and culture, as well as the teeny-tiny snow flakes (because it was so cold and dry that the snow didn't clump as it fell) and the fact that we didn't see the sun for at least two-and-a-half weeks!

With the Olympics now in Sochi, I get excited whenever NBC shows stock footage and flyover film of Moscow and St. Petersburg, and I took the opportunity during last night's opening ceremony broadcast to share my Russian treasures with Kate. They're on display in the playroom, but I doubt she's ever really noticed, and certainly didn't connect the items on that particular shelf with a certain country on the globe.

 

So, I showed Kate my books and pictures, icons, and matryoshkas (nesting dolls). We took a couple of the dolls apart, which I hadn't done in years, and even I was shocked to recall how tiny these little handpainted pieces go!

 

For a sense of scale, take a look at the smallest five in one of them, compared to a normal housekey! And yet even on that tiny one, laying in the bowl of its next-biggest mate, has facial features and other detail.

 

I enjoyed the celebration of Russian culture during the opening ceremony, and the retellings of Russian history (selective and idealized as they were, of course). So many new tasks, hobbies, and passions fill my life as an adult now, it was so fun to be carried back to the ten or more years of my life when Russia was among my most fervent interests.

And now Kate will know that, while I don't know what we'd do without all that hidden toy storage in our playroom, the main reason Daddy and I had those built-in shelves added was to display our most precious pictures, books, and travel memorabilia!

Welcome to our playroom, says Kate. And let the games begin!

Show and Tell: T for Tiger

I had something else in mind for this week's Show and Tell, and then I learned last night that Kate's class is doing Show and Tell for the first time today! How appropriate!

Kate knows all her letters already, but her class focuses on a letter every week to practice writing, talking about things that start with that letter, etc. So it makes perfect sense to add a Show and Tell component—bring in anything that starts with that letter!

So with this week's focus being on the letter T, Kate decided to take in her tiger puppet, Bartholomew P. Tiger, who we bought four years ago on Kate's first trip to the zoo. She's memorized his full name and is prepared to tell all her friends about when and where she got him. And, of course, to demonstrate his RAWR!

You just can't hold him without saying, "RAWR!" Claire looked quite alarmed and backed out of the room when Bartholomew rawred at her this morning :0)

Kate and Bartholomew's first meeting, April 2009

Ode to Dr. Blackwell

In honor of Clergy Appreciation Month (October, if you weren't aware) Ministry Matters is doing a blog tour and link-up in which pastors and others share about a "minister who mattered" to them. We've got Mike Slaughter, Jessica LaGrone, Max Lucado, Adam Hamilton, Matthew Paul Turner, Grace Biskie, and others blogging over Oct. 1-14, and everyone is invited to participate. What a great way to honor someone who made a difference in your faith and life! Check it out and link up at MinistryMatters.com/blogtour.

I've known a lot of great ministers in my time—from my home church, family friends, and now various friends and colleagues, and of course, my husband! But the person who stands out in my mind is not ordained clergy at all. You don't have to be a pastor to be a minister, remember. Arguably the person who had the greatest impact on my faith journey was one of my religion professors at Furman University, Dr. Albert Blackwell.

Sometimes, when Christian kids are headed off to college, they are warned to guard their faith, to be wary of  those evil, atheist professors who will try to educate their faith out of them. That's a bit of a caricature, of course, and I don't recall a specific warning of that nature from my very moderate faith community growing up—but I do recall that, even though I entered college with the thought of youth ministry as a possible career, I avoided taking religion classes my first semester. Maybe even my whole first year. "Academic study of religion" had a bad rap in some circles, since such classes would expose a person to views of the Bible and theology beyond the "party line" of whatever organization was doing the warning.

Once I started my religion classes, though, I found my whole world enlivened with deeper understanding of the cultures from which the Bible emerged. I was excited by theological discussions, the way different people or groups of people had different ideas about God, influenced by their context and life experience. I recall the exhilarating session of Religion in America with Dr. Helen Lee Turner when we watched a documentary about the ideological shift of the Southern Baptist Convention in the early 1980s and I knew that I wanted to study evangelical and fundamentalist movements in American church history. (And that's what I indeed focused on during my M.T.S. studies at Vanderbilt!)

The religion department at Furman (perhaps unlike many other universities) was full of professors whose faith was part-and-parcel with their scholarship, whose work was fueled by a love for the church and a desire to see it better reflect the God it serves. Dr. Blackwell was no exception to that, but he was exceptional nonetheless. Tall and distinguished, he embodied an unpretentious commitment to Christ and the Christian life. When I picture him, I see him standing at the front of the classroom, a long torso with belt exactly halfway between the soles of his shoes and the crown of his head, feet planted as if thick, tangled roots connected him deep and wide to the source of the wisdom he spoke.

Classes were conducted in-the-round, encouraging discussion of the texts we'd read for the day. I was at first intimidated to speak up, feeling like whatever I said was shallow or unsubstantiated, but one day I made some sort of semi-insightful comment (I don't even remember what it was) and he responded by taking a lollipop out of his shirt pocket and presenting it to me with subtle fanfare and affirmation that gave me confidence to engage further in the class.

His career in religion began when, while finishing his degree in physics at M.I.T., he attended a lecture by theologian Paul Tillich, and decided to pursue graduate work in theology at Harvard Divinity School. With this background in science and math, and a love of music, Dr. Blackwell saw the divine element in all areas of life. Furman was not a publish-or-perish environment, so it is fitting that Dr. Blackwell's most recent book is 1999's The Sacred in Music. He directed the choir at his church and was working with his wife to compose new tunes for the Psalms, I recall. (I see online now he has choral anthems available for free use by churches.) He drew some mathematical formula on the board in class once, and being math-dumb as I am, it was completely over my head, but I recall the lesson was something about how infinity—The Infinite—changes everything.

Dr. Blackwell opened my eyes to Jesus' mandate that we serve the poor and work for justice. My politics did shift in college, as many people's do, but directly as a result of deeper engagement with Jesus' gospel. Dr. Blackwell often used the term "liberality of love" to describe the all-encompassing generosity with which Christ calls us to live our lives. "Liberal" was a dirty word in my house growing up, mainly equated with permissiveness. Rather than a synonym for libertine, I came to understand "liberal" in the same sense a recipe would call for "a liberal amount of vanilla." It's about generosity, compassion, and love for humanity.

Dr. Blackwell's teaching—nay, ministry—had an incalculable impact on my path in adulthood. He contributed to the passion for studying American religion and culture, with which I headed off to grad school and planned to become a professor myself. (My eventual decision not to pursue a Ph.D. is a post for another day!) He instilled in me concern and compassion for the poor that has transformed my Christian life and hopefully will continue to shape all I do. Not least, he also gave me a new set of eyes to see God's presence in the world around me. God didn't just make the trees and the animals—he made the particles and forces that make electricity work. He made all the stuff that is in steel and medicine and everything else that we think of as man-made. His hand is in it all. (This has come to mind a lot recently as Kate learned in school recently how "God made everything," and she comes to me with a random object like a plastic kitchen strainer, asking "Why are there holes in it? Is that how God made it?" Hmmm...)

As I wrote my final exam for Dr. Blackwell's Religious Approaches to Meaning class my last semester of college, I was surprised/amused to find I'd essentially written the same essay for both exam questions. I don't recall the questions, but my answers were both focused on the "middle way," a way of living that keeps a hand on earth and an eye on heaven. The "approaches to meaning" that were too earth-focused were devoid of eternal significance, and those that were based in spiritual ecstasy were "no earthly good," as the saying goes.

I handed in my paper and told Dr. Blackwell how both questions led me to the same answer. He responded sagely, "Perhaps you've discovered the grain of the universe." Indeed; it is more or less my version of the meaning of life, which I tend to summarize with the title refrain from Chris Rice's album "Run the earth and watch the sky."

I'd say Dr. Blackwell is an earth-runner-sky-watcher as well. He strives to make an impact here on earth, investing in the lives of countless students and working for justice through various ministries, always with God in his heart, Christ as his guide.

I was honored to be part of Dr. Blackwell's retirement festivities in 2004, the year after I graduated. The day included a panel on religion and social justice with several of Dr. Blackwell's former students, from class of 1973 to class of 2003 (me), and a musical concert that evening. The only photo I could find beyond the web-stolen one above was, of course, on the page in my scrapbook about the event. Those were the days before my digital camera (and, apparently, before lipstick and eyeliner :0) The little photo to the right was in the Furman alumni magazine, of Dr. Blackwell at the 2003 Commencement, holding a little sign that wished "Godspeed!" to the graduates processing by.

Godspeed to you, Dr. Blackwell. Thank you for your influence on my life and those of so many others. Your ministry matters!
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Blog about someone who made a difference to you and link up at MinistryMatters.com/blogtour, any time before Oct. 14.

Memorial Day Houseguests

Over the long weekend, we had some great houseguests: Matt's friend Lisa and her husband Jim! Lisa went to high school with Matt (funny how most of our friends are Matt's high school friends—I guess that's what happens when you settle down in one partner's hometown!) and now live in California, so we don't see them very often at all. In fact, Lisa was a "groomsmaid" in our wedding in 2006 and Matt was a "bridesman" in their wedding in 2005, and those were the last two times we saw them! 

So, it had been a while, and we were so excited to have them stay with us for a few days when they came east for Lisa's college reunion in Virginia and a side trip to North Carolina. (If you're flying 2000 miles, I guess driving to locations 300 miles apart doesn't feel like such a big trek!)

Kate latched right on to Lisa, as we knew she would, wanting "Ms. Lisa" to read her bedtime stories. All four of us adults joined in the bedtime Memory games, so it was a big bedtime party each night!

After swimming and churching and chowing down on pizza and Thai food Saturday and Sunday, Monday was our partying day. Matt's parents had us all over for brunch in the morning.

(Just had to throw in this pic of Claire—I just love it! I found this Janie and Jack romper on eBay and it just seemed "so Claire" to me. Claire had fun demolishing a couple of Granna's brown sugar scones. When we pulled her out of the high chair, we joked it was like uprooting a turnip with all the dirt-like crumbs that kept cascading from her as I pulled her higher out of the chair!)

That evening, we had a cookout at our house for BHS alums (and folks who worked at the movie theater with Matt and Lisa) to come see Lisa while she was in town.

Everybody got a kick out of my "veggie island." I saw this done a while back when I stumbled into a live infomercial at our grocery store for the knives formerly known as Gin-Su. I didn't buy any knives, but learned to make an island out of a potato, carrot, and green pepper. (and a shark out of a cucumber, but I didn't tackle that one this time around!)

We even got out some toys and had fun with it later in the evening too!

Kate found a new playmate in Willow Grace, who will be five in July. They were having a great time running around all night, hiding in Kate's closet and bathroom to look at the Twilight Turtle in the dark. While I was putting Claire to bed, they came into the nursery wearing some funny dress-up clothes that I didn't recognize.

"Kate, where did you get those clothes?" I asked.
"Um... where our guests sleep," she replied.

Yes, they had raided our houseguests' suitcases and were parading around in t-shirts, dresses, hats, and 4-inch wedges! I half-scolded, but also just had to laugh, and (knowing Lisa and Jim wouldn't be mad) alerted the adults downstairs to the adorableness. And took some pictures. And video.

It was a really fun night. The high school memories flowed and sounds of raucous laughter filled the house (as did the sounds of children playing maracas and subsequently the sounds of an awakened baby). The girls were fading by the time we took this group shot, but it was a great Memorial Day and we'll have to do it again!