The Hidden Gospel

Let me paint you a picture of my desk. It's right in front of a window adorned with long white curtains and a perfect view of the sunrise and my Window Tree. On the left side of the desk is my computer, a pale mint green desktop Mac. On the right sits the open terrarium my husband bought me for Christmas. (It's thriving, by the way. Turns out that's what happens when you water your houseplants).   In between these two shades of green? What a mess.   A pile of sun-bleached receipts that have yet to be filed. A splattering of pink sticky notes with random ideas jotted down. A holder for my highlighters and pens, though they often don't end up there. Love letters from the IRS, real estate flyers from my day job, books I don't intend to read any time soon, and coffee stains on the few square inches of wood that is visible have greeted me each morning for months. Guitar picks, hair ties, paperclips, and earrings without a match fill in the blank spaces, and in front of m...

There is a book I own that is so worn I have had to tape in the pages that are falling out. It is called Space for God by Don Postema . It's a book about Gratitude.  In addition to being on my own library shelf, the book sits on the library shelf of the Vincent Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. The book is laid out in Landscape format and is an eclectic collection of "windows to insight" - trail cairns of sorts that point us toward The Way .  Nestled among poems, song lyrics, paintings by artists like Rembrandt, scripture verses, and quotes from monks and theologians, are selected drawings and letters from the tortured mind of Vincent Van Gogh.    I say tortured because he is quite the textbook definition of the  Tortured Artist  stereotype. There is a lot of research and controversy around this theory, ranging from the dangers of romanticizing mental illness and necessitating it for creativity, to Appreciating the fact that the arts have played a significant ...

"The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." I was four years old, unboxing a beautiful porcelain doll with the rosiest of cheeks from my grandma, who is a brilliant oil painter. She was in a frilly white baptism dress and bonnet, and holding in her hands a very small white book with a gold cross on the front. I asked my dad what the words in the little white book said. It was the Gospel of John. I got up on his knee and he started to read it to me. (I remember being on his knee, because I was very uncomfortable and fidgety and couldn't pay attention to what he was saying. It bored me. I didn't Understand it). I probably interrupted him with my favorite question: "But what does it Mean , Daddy?" "It means that Jesus Loves you very much." Jesus. I knew that Name. Of course I knew that Name. Everybody knew that Name. It was on every street corner in my town. For the next 14 years, the doll sat in a wooden curio cabinet in...

Just 41 days before his assassination, Lincoln addressed the nation in his Second Inaugural Address. Let's consider the scene:  It had been raining all morning. Citizens flocking to the Capitol were dressed in their finest clothes and were found unbothered at the mud that was caked on their leather and lace. No amount of rain or ruin could wash away the palpable joy and Anticipation emanating from the United black and white faces in the crowd.     What must they have Expected? Condemnation for the South for starting our country's bloodiest war? Vindication for the North for their noble efforts to preserve the Union? An epic speech to compete with his First Inaugural Address, which had taken about a half hour to deliver, a package elegantly wrapped in sophisticated terms?   In a violent clash of Expectations, Lincoln stepped up to the podium as the clouds broke and the sun burst forth for the first time that day, and gave a simple speech that lasted not seve...

What Attracted you today? Which of your senses did a double-take?  Maybe you heard a song on the radio and reached to turn the volume up. Perhaps you paused to take a big inhale when you walked outside and were met with the rusty scent of warm rain hitting the pavement. Was it the captivating colors of a Red-Bellied Woodpecker at your bird-feeder?  For me, it was the comforting embrace of holding my mug of freshly-ground Ethiopian Sidamo to my nose, the pause and small offering of gratitude before taking the first sip. It was the sudden stop of my fingers clacking away on the keyboard to listen to the sound of our cat purring in the chair next to me. It was lifting my eyes from my computer screen to watch the golden glow of the sun kissing my Window Tree good morning. Beauty.  I would offer a definition, but Beauty is not something that can be defined. It can only be experienced.  I've been considering the phrase, 'Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder' over the past ...

'Honest Abe's' Last Words were whispered to his wife from the presidential box at Ford's Theatre as they were dreaming about their post-war world travels:  "We will visit the Holy Land and see those places hallowed by the footsteps of the Savior. There is no place I so much desire to see as Jerusalem."  That's when his assassin's gunshot and Mary's screams shattered the night.  Lincoln hadn't always desired to see Jerusalem. About 30 years before he spoke his Final Words, Lincoln wrote a series of essays called, " The Little Book on Infidelity ." He was well-known around his town of New Salem, Illinois, as an Infidel , having been uninspired by most of the 'so-called' Christianity around him. The booklet was heavily inspired by founding father, Thomas Paine, and Scottish poet, Robert Burns, both of whom were also well-known as Infidels. Their conclusions read out like bad book reviews of the Bible: "What tyrant ever rende...