What Do I Have to Do to Get a Cake Around Here?

In our church we have a habit of celebrating special events with cakes—delicious icing-laden sheet cakes. Today we had one for a couples’ sixtieth wedding anniversary. A few weeks ago we had one in honor of a church member who had been selected as Charlevoix’s “Citizen of the Year.” Several months ago, we had one in honor of a member who had been playing the organ and piano in church for fifty years. This morning as I was getting ready for church I was thinking about my own musical duties for today—play keyboard for two worship services, play some hymns at a nursing home in the afternoon, and then lead some music for a small group gathering in the evening.

I remember how it all began back in the fourth grade in a Christian School where the singing of hymns was part of our morning routine. For the first time, I had a teacher who did not play the piano so we either had to sing acapella or count on some students from the sixth grade to play for us. One weekend I decided to be the fourth grade accompanist and proceeded to learn the hymns one by one. I started out with “In Sweet Communion” which was a song my mother suggested because it was only a few lines long in a simple key signature.
In sweet communion, Lord with Thee I constantly abide.
My hand thou holdest in thine own to keep me near thy side.

Pretty soon I had a list of songs on the chalkboard that the other little fourth graders could choose from and I was on my way to a lifetime of playing. My parents did not have a lot of money, but they did send me regularly to lessons. I went to Mrs. Albers’ house every Saturday morning with the $1.25 that she charged for lessons clutched in my hand. Her dog Cleo, a little black bull dog would try to greet me at the door but, since I was afraid of him, he would be sent instantly to his little bed.

Mrs. Albers taught me well, even though I didn’t practice enough and successfully avoided the theory part. I never realized how important music would be to me as I got older; I remember sitting at the piano singing and playing my way through happy times as well as broken-hearted times. My rebellious sister bought the music to “Jesus Christ Super Star” and I loved playing it. I remember singing the lyrics to “Hosanna:” “Why waste your breath, moaning at the crowd? Nothing can be done to stop the shouting. If every tongue was stilled the noise would still continue—the rocks and stones themselves would start to sing!” My mom would hear me and wonder where I had gotten that great music. She would not have approved and I never told her it was a rock opera.

One Sunday evening, after I had married and moved up north, our pastor asked if anyone could play the piano. After looking around and seeing no volunteers I raised my hand. That decision eventually led to regular piano playing, choir accompaniment, Christmas Cantata, praise team and much more. I’m really an average musician, but I’m willing to try a lot of things and have kind of figured out how to fake my way through things. I’ve recently come to the conclusion that being able to play anything in a hymnal is kind of a dying art and I’ve always just kind of taken it for granted. (By the time I was in the sixth grade, there were at least five of us who could accompany singing.)

I’ve had to stretch and grow because there’s lots more music to be played now. I’m so proud of myself for acquiring the recent ability to read off a chord chart—no notes on lines—just letters!! Sometimes I have to use my listening skills and figure out something from a C.D. And that theory stuff that I was never interested in, has become a fascinating and gratifying puzzle that I finally figured out after teaching other students for about twelve years.

There have been some Sundays, especially during the Christmas season, when I feel like I’m at the piano all day. Those are the days that I imagine my parents sitting on a love-seat in heaven with a cup of coffee, listening and high-fiving each other and acknowledging that the hard-earned $1.25 a week they paid for lessons was well worth it. I think they know how much I appreciate them and how I’m making up now for all of those times they had to nag me to practice. And my piano teacher, last I heard she was still teaching. I had a chance to thank her a few years ago. And, when I think about it, I accompanied my first hymn in the fourth grade at about eight years old. Let’s see . . . fifty-eight minus eight is . . . hey! I’ve been at it for fifty years too! I believe my cake is coming any day now!

Why I'm Not Giving Up Chocolate For Lent

Here it is on Ash Wednesday and I’m eating a chocolate brownie with a glass of wine. A lot of people probably gave these things up for Lent, but I’m not one of them. Oh sure, we had a wonderful church service this evening with a message that challenged us to give up those things that keep us from following after God. I even wrote some things down and placed them at the cross. I did not promise God that I would give up some “thing,” but I did promise to make some changes in my life regarding how I spend my time.

One of those changes involves being more intentional about prayer. I’m kind of an obsessive-compulsive Bible reader with a competitive spirit, so I’m pretty good at that. I’ll read large chunks of scripture at a time just to claim the title of “first-person-to-get-through-the-Bible-this-year” in my home. (I’m only competing against one other person and I’m not sure he cares whether I win or not.) But prayer involves more commitment from me. I keep putting it off . . . or falling asleep . . . or thinking that my prayer list is too long I’ll never get to it all. There are tons of excuses but I’m going to do better at that.

I’m also going to try to journal every day during Lent. That’s hard work for me but it just might keep me away from that arcade of video games on my IPad calling to me. I learn stuff about myself when I write, and perhaps someday one of my curious grandchildren or great-grandchildren may read this and learn stuff about me too.
I’m going to work on a few relationships as well. There are a couple of people in my life for whom my heart aches and I’m not sure what that’s about. I think they’re struggling and could use a listener and an advocate. During this season I’m going to be intentional about that and I know that God will prepare the way for those conversations.

So . . . this Ash Wednesday, 2012, I’ve added things to my life rather than giving things up. In the past I’ve found that I was giving up things that I knew I should, but my motives were wrong. I think if I give something up, it shouldn’t be something that I know would be good to give up anyway. Like food. I was talking with someone tonight who actually weighed herself before she came to church because she was going to give up all food after 8:00 p.m. and she was giving up desserts also. She was annoyed with herself because she weighed the same as she did on Ash Wednesday last year, in spite of the fact that she had lost 12 pounds . . . during Lent.

If I give up something that I know I should give up anyway, that’s kind of like using God for dual purposes. If I need to lose the weight, why make it look like I’m giving up food for a spiritual purpose? It’s kind of like waiting to pray until I’m on my way to work and have nothing better to do. Isn’t God worth my setting aside special time? And isn’t God worth my giving up something that is truly a sacrifice, not something I should be giving up anyway?

So . . . that’s why I’m taking another approach. I’m adding things to my life that I know are part of His plan for me. If I do them well, those things I should have given up, whatever they are, might just fall away.

The Tattoo Tells the Story

The “Royal Flesh” Tattoo and Piercing Center surprisingly was open very late on a Saturday evening. We were giggling as we climbed out of the taxi and saw the sign on the door telling us that a young man named “Powder” was the artist on duty that evening. We had made an impulsive phone call and knew he was expecting us. My friend Connie was whimpering a little bit, but the rest of us were calm and managed to keep her settled down as well. After the procedure was finished, we climbed back into a taxi, minus a little cash and sporting fresh bandages to cover our wounds.

My friends and I were having a lot of fun that weekend making many memories. If life is a story, this was a chapter to remember. Conversations about tattoos had been going on for several summers and all that was needed was the right occasion, someone to throw down the challenge, and the right person who knew where to take us. All that came together on that evening in Chicago. There were no time-consuming decisions to be made; we all knew exactly what we wanted. Coincidentally, Connie and I were wearing necklaces depicting the symbols we each cherished and our friend Deb quickly found a picture of hers.

They say that once you start “inking” your body, you’re likely to become hooked. They also say that if you get tattoos when you’re young, you’ll probably regret it when you’re old. My daughter, who speaks humor into the truth, told me I’m smart because I waited until I actually was old to get the first one (a magnolia in memory of a very dear friend on my ankle). This time however I became a little bolder with a message that goes much deeper than “I miss my friend Lori.”

If you do a Google search for the symbols, “alpha and omega,” you’ll find lots of Greek and sorority items. There’s also a home-schooling website, a brand of car seat, and a recent movie about two wolves. The symbols have been used often, but never with such deep meaning as in the book of Revelation. When the Bible talks about Jesus being the beginning and the end, His timeline stretches much farther in both of those directions than anything else with that title; so when I put an “alpha” on the inside of one wrist, and an “omega” on the inside of the other, it meant a lot more than Jesus being there from the beginning to the end of life as I know it.

I’ve had some feedback about my decision—actually mostly positive. We’ll see what summer brings when my wrists are laid bare for all to see. When people ask me, I’ll feel compelled to tell them about Jesus, but I’ll probably ask them if they want the short explanation or the long one.

My life is a story. These symbols remind me that I know how it begins and I’m confident how it will end. What happens in between is the awesome part. I just finished Donald Miller’s book “A Million Miles in a Thousand Years,” and it was one of those life-changing, or should I say “story-changing” experiences. He talks about having the amazing chance to re-write and change ones story—it’s never too late. The chapters of my own story all happen between the “alpha” and “omega.” It’s pretty much up to me to make them meaningful.

Sometimes that quest for a meaningful story involves getting messy, sometimes it involves difficult and intense conversations, sometimes it involves excruciatingly hard work, but other times it involves the pure joy and silliness of making memories in a tattoo parlor.