Queen Kelley

[WARNING: CONTAINS MILD SPOILERS]

Yes, the end is near…concerning my favorite television show, Lost, that is.

As I write, two episodes remain, though one is reportedly a 2 1/2-hour series finale. The last several episodes of this epic show have provided answers to numerous questions we’ve asked for several years now: Who are the skeletons in the cave? What are Jacob’s origins? How did the Man in Black become a “smoke monster”? What is the source of the mysterious whispers? Why is Richard ageless? Et cetera, et cetera. Some of the answers have disturbed me (particularly the shattering of my ideal of the Jacob character, who seems more clueless than I imagined), some have confirmed my suspicions (the Man in Black is perhaps less evil than I thought), and many have only provoked more questions (I still don’t know the purpose of the Island).

Usually, after watching an episode, I head over to Entertainment Weekly.com to read Doc Jensen’s unpacking of the story. Often much of what he writes flies over my head, but I think this reflection on last week’s episode finally highlights the point of the entire series:

It could be that Lost is philosophically relativistic and religiously pluralistic—but given everything else we’ve [seen] on the show, I think what’s more likely is that Lost just doesn’t trust human beings enough to know “the right answer.” We are too flawed, too damaged, too biased, too selfish, too incapable, too limited, too mortal, just plain too much of this world to be able to really and fully know what this world is really all about. To paraphrase Mother: All our answers will only lead to more questions. It’s an infinite progression into infinite regression—”turtles all the way down” cubed…. I don’t think Lost is saying to stop pursuing truth. Not at all. I think it’s more concerned with how we conduct our search and how we can labor with our neighbor in their search. Because lord knows that the bloody, brutal fight over all this stuff remains more troubling and terrifying than ever. (See full article at All About Lost.)

Interpret these words as you will. I do the same for myself. Lost has been one great big mysterious pile of confusion. Entertaining, yes, but rather frustrating for its continued sense of the unknown and the untold. Kind of like this journey of faith I’m on. I know many people who are completely at peace with the answers they’ve found in their spiritual lives. Though they may have further questions, they are okay with not knowing and they accept that they “see through a glass darkly” for now (1 Cor 13:12).

Sometimes I wish I were like this so the incessant questions about God and faith would stop torturing me. Then again, I find that the process of discovery (or continued mystery) is rewarding in itself. I think Doc is right. Most of us are completely incapable, for various reasons, of reaching Ultimate Truth here on earth. As I watch Lost, most revelations only lead to more questions. As I journey through my faith life, I find that the same thing happens. I feel at peace with one aspect of my beliefs only to question another.

Wikipedia cites a book by Stephen Hawking to explain Doc’s “turtles” comment. Hawking said a scientist once explained the arrangement of our galaxy—the sun in the center and everything orbiting around it. At the end of the lecture, a lady said, “What you have told us is rubbish. The world is really a flat plate supported on the back of a giant tortoise.”

The scientist replied, “What is the tortoise standing on?”

“You’re very clever, young man, very clever,” the lady said. “But it’s turtles all the way down!” (From Hawking, A Brief History in Time [Bantam Books, 1988])

Say what you will about Hawking, but this story resonates with me. The answers to our questions about something as grand and unfathomable as God will simply bring more and more questions. And everyone will have his or her own idea of how to answer them.

Sadly, I think religious sects (and divisions within those sects) will continue to war about their ideas of the Truth. It is indeed a “bloody, brutal fight,” and it is “troubling and terrifying.”

I think Lost, as a series, has touched deeply on the fact that we may not all know exactly where we’re going, why we’re here, what God means to us, how life and death and afterlife will play out, or how we got here in the first place. However, the show has shown effectively that, even in our ignorance of these things, we can still make choices and take leaps of faith that have widespread implications—for good or for evil.

What will I choose?

I like lists, both making them and reading them. When I get to the end, I feel like I’ve accomplished something. For today’s list, I thought about sharing what with you. Then I figured why is a lot more interesting. So here’s my list of why, part 1.

1. Why I prefer reading and writing children’s literature. By children’s, I mean anything from picture books to teen fiction. I’ll admit I haven’t read much adult fiction, so my opinion is definitely biased. From the few pieces I’ve read, though, I have to say that children’s literature seems to offer more imagination, hope, and freedom to dream. Whether it’s fantasy, coming-of-age, or some other kind of tale, I’m completely pulled into books about or directed toward young people. In the best of these books, the characters are palpable, the life lessons subtle, the humor abundant, and the endings nearly always hopeful, if not necessarily happy. I enjoy writing for this age group for similar reasons. I’ve found that I don’t need explicit descriptions of sexual encounters to sense passion between individuals. I don’t need long, drawn-out, brutal death scenes to appreciate depth of loss. I don’t need excessive profanity to understand the fire behind a character’s words. The bottom line is that I simply think children’s literature is more fun and fulfilling to read. With limited reading time, I go with what I love.

2. Why Harry Potter is an obsession of mine. My infatuation with all things Harry Potter ebbs and flows with the book and movie releases. Recently, I’ve rewatched movies 3 and 4 and will soon watch 5 to get ready for the release of 6 next month. Of course, the books trump the movies any day, but time constraints don’t allow me to reread them in the way I’d like. As for Harry, there’s something incredibly moving about witnessing him transform from a small, awkward, and unaware young wizard into a force that defeats the wizarding world’s greatest enemy. Perhaps most fascinating is that he doesn’t actually evolve all that much. While his perspective on life and death and good and evil greatly matures, he is still Harry at the end of the series—awkward, slightly unsure, not at all self-glorifying. There are things to complain about regarding some of Rowling’s logic and lack of editing, but overall the series is powerful, captivating, and enduring. I look forward to reading the books with my kids in a few years. (As for the religious controversy over the books, I say it all comes back to Glenda’s question in The Wizard of Oz: “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?” Clearly, Harry is good, as hard as it is to be good in a world where evil is so tantalizing.)

3. Why I put my kids to bed at 8:00 every night. Plain and simple, they need the sleep, and the King and I need the time to ourselves. Additionally, my children wake up by 6:30 nearly every morning, regardless of when they go to bed, so why not get them down early and extend the night for everyone? Although you can never be certain of a family’s reasoning, I still cringe when I’m at a grocery store at 9:00 pm and see small children gallivanting around with their parents. Put them to bed already!

4. Why I believe in God. Science intrigues me. The more I learn about our amazing universe, the more I feel certain that there is a Higher Power behind it all. I simply can’t accept the fact that everything, from the enormity of the sun that sustains our life to the tiniest particles that make up our cells, randomly exploded into being. As for the particulars of how, when, why, and exactly what, most days I’m content to discover those things as God chooses to reveal them. I know many intelligent, logical, reasonable people disagree with this belief in a Supreme Force. But I believe. I’ve found that I can’t do otherwise.

5. Why I’m a Baptist. I’d like to say it’s because I admire Baptist principles like freedom of interpretation, separation of church and state, priesthood of the believer, autonomy of the local church, etc. Those are indeed lofty principles when applied to the way one worships God. To be honest, though, I’m a Baptist because I was born into it. Who knows how it would be otherwise. I might just as easily be a Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, Catholic, some other religion, or not a believer at all. I’d like to think I’d be attracted to the Baptist faith as an outsider, but my particular denomination of Christianity has a poor reputation these days. However, being mature enough now to explore other groups, I choose to remain a Baptist mostly because of the historic principles listed above.

6. Why I give money to childhood cancer research/support organizations. Everyone needs a cause—a place to direct his or her money, time, and passion. For the King and me, it’s childhood cancer groups. Our main inspiration appears occasionally on my blog. A little girl with a big story, Catie Marie Wilkins battled medulloblastoma (aggressive brain tumor) for nearly four years. She passed on at age four in January 2007, just a week before her younger sister’s birth. I still follow the family’s journey, which Catie’s mother Jenny writes beautifully on her blog. What these children face is beyond horrifying. What their parents endure is unimaginable. The strength they all exhibit is breathtaking. The King and I are committed to caring for these kids and their families as much as we can, and hopefully we can increase our support and involvement as our own children mature.

7. Why symmetry drives me crazy. My husband is an engineer. For his work, symmetry is essential and even at times a life-and-death matter. However, he brings this into the home. The rugs must be completely straight, the pictures perfectly aligned, the colors mirror images of each other. We laugh about it because my instinct is to bump things slightly askew, to scatter the colors, to break the reflection. It makes life more interesting and unpredictable. Of course, John would say just the opposite.

8. Why I wear my seatbelt and switch off lights. It’s my dad. From the time we were small, he insisted that we buckle up while riding, and this was before seatbelt use was the law or even popular. Luckily, the habit stuck with me even through my teen years, when many of my friends considered seatbelts annoying and uncool. Now I have the law on my side, so I will accept no excuses from my own kids. As a Georgia Power engineer, my dad also nagged about us leaving lights on in unused rooms. At this point, I probably use more energy than I conserve because I flip off the lights even when I leave a room only for a few minutes. Thanks, Daddy. (:

9. Why I care about the Earth. I have a hard time understanding why anyone, especially those who believe in God, think caring for the Earth is some liberal, new age way to live. For me, it merely makes sense. When I think about the technological advances that have consumed our world in the past century, our progress blows my mind. Accompanying our advances in America is, unfortunately, a tendency to produce more waste that takes years to decompose (if it ever does), to collect material possessions in excess of anything anyone would ever need, to use our resources as if they are limitless (they’re not), and to disregard the fact that people across the sea still can’t count on clean water, much less electricity to power their lives. Why any Christian would think it’s not important to care for the Earth is totally beyond me. I can’t do it all, but I’ll do my best to recycle, reuse, and choose my food and products carefully in this little corner where I live.

10. Why I take a break from reading to read. The King simply shakes his head at me when, after a couple of hours of nightly editing, I crawl into bed to open a book and read for a few minutes. Let me assure you that there is an enormous difference in reading  someone’s writing in order to correct it and reading someone’s writing in order to enter another world. There is nothing—not movies, not vacations, sometimes not even time with friends—like sneaking away into the world created by a fiction author. I’m so thankful for books and only wish I had more time to read them.

To be continued….

First of all, I’ve gotten helpful feedback from several of you—readers I didn’t even realize I had. Thanks for stopping by and especially for commenting about some of my more recent subjects, sensitive as they are. With the school issue in particular, it’s good to hear from various perspectives, but I feel especially encouraged by those who either attended public school or are sending their kids to one. Patrick said, “You’re always going to worry.” I’ll certainly agree with that! I thought I was a worrier BEFORE I had kids. Imagine me now. Even so, I find that I’ve been able to put my worries in perspective in a way I never thought I could.

As for the mysteries of this journey we call “Christianity,” “religion,” “faith,” “seeking,” or various other labels, I’m comforted to read that a couple of you are in the same boat with me on all this—or at least in the same river. I think some who “believe” are too quick to judge others as wayward when they dare to deviate from the party-line truths we’ve learned since childhood. I’m finding that this spiritual journey is much bigger than a narrow set of concepts with particular names. The magnitude of it—the sheer number of ways the Higher Power communicates with individuals—takes my breath away. What an honor it is to seek, to study, to learn, and to relate alongside all of you. I pray that we never make God too small, that we never think we know it all, that we are always willing to consider another’s perspective on this incredible, mysterious journey, even if it sounds completely crazy at first. We never know when God will reveal another aspect of God’s self to us.

As for my favorite television show, I simply can’t commit to my previous weekly analyses. I wish I could! It was helpful for me to rehash the details and pose my questions. Be assured, though, that my time is limited but my television is always on ABC at 9:00 on Wednesday nights! I haven’t missed an airing of Lost yet. Some amazing show, isn’t it?

Anyway, thanks again, my faithful handful of readers (and those who stop by occasionally), for offering your thoughts.

I leave you with this quotation used by the author of a recent work I copyedited:

Is openness to other ideas infidelity, or is it the beginning of spiritual maturity? What is it that can possibly take us so far afield from the initial believing self? How do we explain to ourselves the journey of getting from there to here, from unquestioning adherence to institutional answers, to the point of asking faithful questions? It took years before I realized that maybe it is belief itself, if it is real, that carries us there. Maybe if we really believe about God what we say we believe, there comes a time when we have to go beyond the parochialisms of law. …When we develop a spiritual life that is beyond some kind of simple, unthinking attachment to an inherited canon of behaviors, the soul goes beyond adherence to a system to the growth of the soul.

Joan Chittister, Called to Question: A Spiritual Memoir (Chicago: Sheed & Ward, 2004) 12, 13, 19.

Today, a dear friend told me he’s ready for Jesus to come. “I have a lot of questions,” he said. This man, who has lived a couple of decades longer than I, has already experienced a lifetime’s worth of misery, horror, and disappointment. Despite this, he’s neither sullen nor depressed. He’s actually quite jolly and a big kid at heart. He’s also a deep thinker, one who ponders the mysteries of life without fear and poses the unanswerable questions just for the sake of starting a meaningful discussion. He believes, even in all his uncertainty and wonderings, that when he dies he will go to be with Jesus, that he’ll get to ask all the questions that plague him.

On this Easter Sunday, listening to my friend, I nodded. I, too, have a lot of questions. I could write a list of them here, and they would make for a lengthy post indeed. They are the questions of many people, of the believers and the seekers and the curious and the wonderers. Most of these questions are unanswerable, at least on this side.

A disciple of Jesus—one who spent hours with him, ate with him, watched him interact with people, and heard his teachings on the great mysteries—had his own questions. Some call him “Doubting Thomas,” seeing his desire for proof as a negative characteristic. As recorded in the Gospel of John, he didn’t believe his friends when they told him they’d seen Jesus, alive and well, only days after his lungs stopped working while he hung on an instrument of torture. Thomas knew they’d put Jesus’ dead body in a tomb and sealed it. Despite his master’s hints along the way, he didn’t get it. Neither did they. Neither do I.

I don’t think Thomas was a habitual doubter. I think he doubted because of the overwhelming events he had witnessed. Limited in a human body just as we are, confined to a finite moment in time, he had difficulty understanding what Jesus meant by his teachings. I think he had a bold desire for the truth. I think he wanted to see for himself rather than basing his faith on hearsay. He had a need to connect with Jesus personally and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that his Lord was truly alive again. I’m with him.

Fortunately for Thomas, he got his chance this side of the afterlife. He saw his friend, his master, his Lord—Jesus. In the flesh, in person, face to face in a real body. He even touched him. “Do not doubt but believe,” Jesus told him. Then comes the comment that pains me: “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.” (John 20:24-29)

For most of my life thus far, I’d have placed myself in the latter category. I have never seen Jesus Christ in the flesh, and yet I believe. As time rolls on, though, and as my list of questions grows longer, I find that I long to see him so I can believe more fully, more deeply, more certainly. 

I will continue to believe in a Higher Power, and I will continue to believe that part of that Power is Jesus. As for the details, though, I find that my brain mulls them over and over. I yearn for clarity. I know that, one day, I’ll either get clarity, or I’ll find that clarity doesn’t matter at all.

Is anyone with me?

The girls and I enjoyed a quickly planned visit today from members of the “G” family (see their blog in my links list). Cheryl and her two boys spent the morning and lunch with us while husband and father Fadi did some work in a nearby town.

Cheryl’s little man, who just celebrated his first birthday, bounced from one item to another, curiously exploring his new surroundings. Fearless and enthusiastic, he boldly toddled down the steps from our kitchen to the den, tasted every object he picked up, and entertained us with his babbles. All the while, his precious big brother slept either in his stroller or snuggled on the sofa. If you read the family’s blog, you’ll learn that their first son was born with brain abnormalities. Now, at age 3, he functions on an infant level and, sadly, can neither hear nor see.

It’s a journey I don’t know, a path I haven’t walked, a trial I can’t fathom. But Cheryl handles it with such grace. Since the beginning, she and her husband have struggled with the “why” questions and learned how to tame them, faced curiosity from strangers who wonder about their boy, and advocated for their sweet son’s health and quality of life. Through it all, at least by my own observance, they’ve managed to maintain a strong marriage and demonstrate both deep love for each member of their family and a steady faith in God.

It was great to spend time with part of this family today, to laugh at the baby’s antics as he followed my Ladybug around, to run my fingers through big brother’s beautiful dark curls and touch his smooth skin, to talk to Cheryl about everything from the difficulty of parents finding time for friendship to the results of her oldest son’s latest surgery.

For me, it was a time to be with a friend. It was also a time to reflect on the many different journeys we take as parents. Some parents travel down roads that seem so haunting to me. It doesn’t make sense that we can’t all travel the sunlit path. Though this path still has its storms, at least they’re predictable. I suppose the hardest thing about living in this world is encountering the unpredictable. Truthfully, none of us ever know what side roads our journeys will take. For me, this is why faith in a Higher Power, in God, is essential. I don’t know about everyone else, but it’s reassuring to know there’s something constant in a world of unknowns.

To people like Cheryl and Jenny (mother to a cancer angel) who sometimes stop by and read what I write, I say thank you for letting me into your lives. I’m an outsider, and there’s no way for me to comprehend your journeys as a parent. And to be honest, I don’t want to be an insider. Even so, I’m grateful that you share your lives with me. It’s a reminder of what I have and a conviction of what I need to do. God has shown me much through you.

As my King mentioned on his post about our gift-wrapping date last night, we watched the Mel Gibson movie The Patriot. I decided that, rather than renting movies we think we want to see, we might as well utilize our significant DVD library and rewatch a few proven favorites. It will be fun to see how they look on the new TV. When I mentioned my list of possibilities to the King, he was keen on my war and special-effects suggestions but slightly less interested in the ones that featured Johnny Depp or Brendan Fraser. Hm.

Anyway, we popped in Gibson’s flick about a motherless family during the Revolutionary War. The movie is not without a large helping of cheese. It’s full of moments contrived simply to make one feel a big dose of American pride. (Though, as I watched the scenes with the African American soldier, I couldn’t help thinking, “This brave man is fighting for a country who won’t give him true freedom until the 1960s, at which point the damage will be so entrenched in the lives of his descendants that they’ll spend years struggling for equal treatment.”)

Even with its problems, though, there’s no doubt that this film, and others like it, pull at my emotional heartstrings and make me ever grateful to those who serve our country, then and now. I may not agree with the initiative for our current war, and I honestly don’t advocate war as a way to solve problems, but the fact is that our world is fallen, and war is the way we deal with our issues. As long as that’s true, women and men will continue to leave their families and journey to a faraway place. They will risk their lives daily in hopes that their many sacrifices will somehow help the world.

The most memorable quote from the movie last night came from Benjamin Wallace (Mel Gibson’s line paraphrased): “Why do we think we can justify death? Is it because we’re arrogant?” I thought about that. We do try to justify the deaths of hundreds of thousands of people who have been killed over the centuries on both sides of our wars. And it does indeed seem like arrogance.

But we’re human, and we need explanations for the horrors in our world. This Christmas, I can’t explain why a young girl will lie in bed missing her mother, why a teenage boy will sit in a tent somewhere writing a letter to parents on the other side of the world, why a mother and father will weep at the sight of an empty chair at their traditional dinner. This goes for all “sides” fighting in the war.  I can, though, say thank you to these families and individuals. I can remember them. I can choose not to take their sacrifices for granted. I can light a candle to honor them and say a prayer to a God whom I believe advocates the way of Peace.

Happy Holidays to all who sacrifice for their countries! May you be blessed no matter how far apart you are from your loved ones.

[This response is directed toward Richard Warren, who commented on my post “A Different Perspective” with the words “Your [sic] a religious NUT! Childhood Cancer is virtual proof of the God Delusion. If God existed he/she would have to be a sadistic MONSTER!” I respect and appreciate Richard’s opinion and agree that I am quite the nut some days. I thought that publishing my response to him might result in a meaningful discussion among my readers. I simply request that you be respectful in what you say. I reserve the right to remove comments I consider inappropriate. Such is the privilege of being Queen Kelley!]

Richard, I don’t know how you found my blog, but thank you for reading and for sharing your—albeit blatant—opinion about my religious beliefs. I’ll say that if you really knew me and my personal thoughts and struggles with this being I’ve called God since childhood, you likely wouldn’t classify me as a “nut.” In my humble opinion, there are many others out there who are much “nuttier” about their beliefs. But that’s beside the point.

I think the bottom line with us folks of faith is this: most of us have doubts and questions and confusions and wonderings. It’s likely that many of us have walked the path of unbelief. I know I have, and the issue of childhood cancer/illness/poverty is probably the most difficult for me to couple with the existence of God. But here’s the other part of that bottom line: for some reason, one I can’t lay out to you in words, a part of me is drawn to and clings to and has undying hope in the presence of this Other. Jenny, my friend and a cancer mom (who also commented on the post “A Different Perspective”) would tell you this, as would hundreds of thousands of other people who believe in a power higher than themselves.

I’m a fairly rational thinker myself, and I like arguments toward proof of whether something is true or not. Even so, it is my opinion that you can argue about God with believers until you’re blue in the face, and many of your arguments will make complete sense, but there is nothing you can do or say to change the reality that we have experienced personally. I will never feel threatened by someone who thinks my beliefs are ridiculous and jaded and idiotic. The truth is, I argue more with myself about God than I do with anyone else. Graham Greene said, “The believer will fight another believer over a shade of difference: the doubter fights only with himself.” We Christians do argue way too much about intricacies of our faith that, honestly, we can’t possibly know. I’d rather see us settle on the great questions—God’s revelation through Jesus Christ and what that means for us—and get on with serving others in humility. That rarely happens, I know.

The last part of Greene’s statement has been uncomfortably true for me. I’m a believer, and yet I’ve been a doubter more often than I care to admit. And the fight, ultimately, is with myself. Even with all the inconsistencies, outrageous claims, and far-fetched statements connected with my faith, something deep within me keeps insisting that my God is real. Maybe that makes me a complete fool in your eyes, but it is something with which no one can argue and that no one can take away.

Richard, I don’t know what you cling to in your darkest times. I don’t know what gives you great joy or lasting peace. I don’t know what you think happens to us after our bodies die. But I can tell you’ve battled with this crazy notion of a higher power, and maybe you’ve arrived at your personal conclusion. I’m glad you felt free to share it on my blog. Maybe you’ll be back, maybe not. If you do return, perhaps you’ll read some of my other posts about the gifts my children and spouse are to me, about the books I enjoy or the films I’ve seen, and about other observations I make on life, even if they are totally insignificant in the grand scheme of things. You may find other fools like me mentioned in the posts or commenting after them. Again, I appreciate your response and respect your position.

I just finished watching Larry King Live, a show I never usually watch on a station I didn’t even realize we got through basic cable. I’m sure that, being such a long-running show masterminded by a well-known interviewer, it frequently offers intriguing topics and features intriguing people. Even so, it’s simply not on my “to-watch” list (which, admittedly, is quite small these days).

Tonight, though, Steven Curtis Chapman, his wife Mary Beth, and their three biological children, Emily, Caleb, and Will Franklin, appeared on the show and endured a Larry King-style interview about the death of their daughter and sister Maria Sue. Translation: Larry asked each of them questions no one should ever have to answer about subjects no decent person ever approaches.

And you know what? The incredible, take-your-breath-away pain the Chapman family still feels was written all over their faces. And, paradoxically, so was their unwavering hope in this being we call God, the one who allows evil and suffering and tragedy for who knows why. Some of them admitted their anger, doubts, and questions toward God. All of them affirmed their belief that little Maria is with Jesus right now. They each exhibited great trust that they will pull through these worst of days, but they acknowledged that their loss is one that will walk with them for a lifetime.

I watched these same five people on Good Morning America yesterday morning. Robin Roberts, their interviewer for that segment, was infinitely more caring and sensitive than Mr. King. However, as many viewers pointed out on Jim Houser’s blog, it was obvious that SCC and MB’s words had been edited to steer clear of the words “God” and “Jesus” in favor of “faith.” It worked for me, as I’m sure it did for thousands who watched the interview. Tonight, though, there was no censoring of live TV. Tonight it was obvious where the Chapman family places their faith. Ironic, isn’t it, that the Truth for this family would be proclaimed so boldly in response to the pointed questions of a man hardened by years of interviews.

This family, in the depths of the greatest grief I can personally imagine, managed to minister to me. They, like others whose journeys I’ve followed, have shown once again that it is possible to survive even the most heartbreaking losses with HOPE.

I’ll close with the new verse Steven added to his already touching song “Yours,” from his new album Live in this Moment:

I’ve walked the valley of death’s shadow
So deep and dark that I could barely breathe
I’ve had to let go of more than I could bear
And questioned everything that I believe
But still even here 
in this great darkness
A comfort and hope come breaking through
As I can say in life or death
God we belong to you.

I’ve finally reached the close of a hectic week. Not only did I hang out with kids at Vacation Bible School Sunday through Thursday evenings, but I also had a particularly overwhelming workload to cram in before falling exhausted into bed each night.

For those who don’t know, I work as an independent editing contractor and also do freelance editing from home both to be with my children and to avoid the monotony of office work. I’m incredibly grateful to my company for making this opportunity possible. Most days, the arrangement works beautifully. While Butterfly no longer takes naps, I can at least squeeze in a bit of reading while she “watches a movie” (translation: throws nearly all the cushions off the couch to construct elaborate obstacle courses and pesters me repeatedly for a snack) and Ladybug snoozes. The bulk of my work, though, takes place at night after the girls go to bed. Add to this the fact that I prefer a 10:00 bedtime if at all possible, and it doesn’t equal much work time. Throw in a schedule change like VBS, and, were it not for the much-appreciated assistance of the King, the Queen Mother, and Empress Katie, I would have spontaneously combusted. I’m sure of it.

Aside from the stress, VBS went well. A friend and I worked with the 4th and 5th graders—an energetic and curious group. They enjoyed acting out the various Bible stories and playing a Pictionary-style game. They especially liked recreation, though we all entered the choir room afterward drenched in sweat from the 90-degree heat.

A heavy dose of joy came to me during the week as I watched my Butterfly enter the closing assembly each night with her little group of friends and then commence to dancing wildly to the theme song from the front row of seats. I found it difficult to take my eyes off her and focus on my own group. Even better were our car rides home as the sun set, when she would excitedly tell me about her evening. “We played Red Roses!” “You mean Red Rover? ‘Red Rover, Red Rover, send Butterfly right over?’” “Yes!” I didn’t even know that game was still allowed. Something about broken arms?

I’m grateful to one of my best friends, Heather, for loving on my little girl all week. I know that Heather was able to teach the basic truth of God’s love through fun and crafts, not through indoctrination and rote recitation, methods that frustrate me. 

I know Butterfly learned something. She asked me to retell the story of Easter morning while we rode home Wednesday evening. I told her about Mary, another Mary, and Salome, who tried to anoint Jesus’ body with spices but were deterred by the angel, who explained that Jesus was alive and had gone (Mark 16). Then I began to draw the story to a close, when I was interrupted by a little girl’s voice in the back seat:

Me: “The women left to go back to the town—”

Butterfly: “and they took a wrong turn and went to Disney World! And Jesus went too!”

Let it never be said that my child believes in a somber Jesus. Can’t you see him on Splash Mountain?

None of us know. And yet all of us know. Even Butterfly, my three-and-a-half-year-old daughter, whose conception of God comes from Sunday school stories and my rather ambiguous statements about our Creator, knows. Today, I asked her to draw a picture to mail to our friends, thanking them for an evening of fellowship this past Sunday. She sat down and went to work, and this was the result:

She titled her crayon drawing “God in the Sky.” I won’t attempt to apply anything profound to her creation that isn’t there, but I was struck by the matter-of-fact tone in her voice as she told me about the picture. After she made the figure, she turned a blue crayon on its side, a technique I’d never seen her use before, and proceeded to shade in the sky all around.

Truthfully, my little girl’s perception of God isn’t so different from my own—somewhat abstract and indefinite, yet colorful and inviting. The day will come when Butterfly will think of God in terms more complex than any words she knows right now. Even then, though, I pray that she will still perceive God as One we cannot fully describe with words or pictures, yet One who invites us to live abundantly and to continue widening our understanding of Him (and/or Her!).

I resolve not to continue to lurk in the depths of despair in my posts, but I’d be lying if I said Maria’s death hasn’t been on my mind. There simply cannot be greater pain than that caused by the loss of a child. I would never minimize the deep sorrow felt by those grieving any lost loved one, but there’s something unique about the death of a child. It goes completely against our natural expectations of the order of things. We’re born, we grow up, we marry, and we either have children or we love someone else’s children. We take pride in watching them grow up, achieve, possibly marry and have their own children. Eventually, we die. Then, much later, they die. This is the cycle of life we trust and expect. When something happens to rip us from this perfect, right pattern, it shatters our spirits.

As I think of the Chapmans’ five-year-old Maria, who died suddenly in a tragic accident, I think also of the Wilkins’s four-year-old Catie, who died of cancer complications after a battle with disease that lasted more than three years. Whether sudden and completely shocking or drawn out and perhaps inevitable, death has a way of upending our lives–and even more so when it takes a child.

My human tendency to ask why is never greater than when I hear stories like these. It’s difficult, to say the least, to comprehend why a God I’ve come to know as loving and compassionate does not always (or even frequently) intervene in the way we so desperately want. Does that make God nonexistent? I don’t think so. Otherwise, I wouldn’t feel so hurt and angry with Him. And I wouldn’t feel, deep within, that mystical “peace that passes understanding” (Phil 4:7). It sounds dismissive, like saying such words smoothes it all out and makes everything better. As a struggling, doubting, often unbelieving “Christian,” I’m here to tell you it doesn’t. And maybe if I didn’t question so much, my intense pain over this issue would eventually dissolve. But I don’t think so. 

God created us to feel deeply, to love fully, and to give our all to the people around us. When we do that, we are bound to hurt with grief beyond words. However, we are also bound to experience joy beyond measure, laughter without restriction, and hope above explanation. In such a time as this, when my heart is heavy and my thoughts inevitably fall on my own two priceless daughters, I pray that I will live the abundant life I’m created to live (John 10:10)—focusing not so much on the dozens of items on my to-do list, which constantly run through my brain, but on living in this moment.

I’ll close with these lyrics from Steven Curtis Chapman (from “Miracle of the Moment”), which bear repeating on my blog:

‘Cause we are who and where and what we are for now
And this is the only moment we can do anything about

So breathe it in and breathe it out
Listen to your heartbeat
There’s a wonder in the here and now
It’s right there in front of you
And I don’t want you to miss the miracle of the moment….

And if it brings you tears
Then taste them as they fall
Let them soften your heart

And if it brings you laughter
Then throw your head back
And let it go….

Today is Earth Day–a day to emphasize the importance of conserving resources, recycling useful materials, consuming local produce, reducing waste, and planting trees. Political showboating aside, I have never understood some people’s resistance to issues related to caring for the world God has given us. Often, in my experience, the resistance has come from the most unexpected sources–people who believe in God and strive to serve what they interpret as God’s purposes. Why would protecting the earth, which is magnificently beautiful even in my own backyard, be considered pandering to a political cause rather than fulfilling one of the earliest instructions recorded in the Bible?

If you read the story of creation in Genesis 1, you’ll find breathtaking imagery of the vastness of our world–and there’s only a hint of the worlds beyond it. Imagine the breadth of our universe. It’s astounding. And we, as creations blessed with thinking brains and the means to act on our thoughts, are responsible for the earth’s care. It seems such a small thing, and yet, as time has marched on through the centuries, we have become more and more careless with our trust. The difference in how I live my life and how my great-great-grandparents lived theirs is like night and day. Conveniences and speed are helpful in our increasingly fast-paced world, but it seems that we rarely ponder how they affect our source of life.

I sat in Butterfly’s swing yesterday and leaned back, marveling at the bright green leaves sheltering us from the midday sun. I breathed in the fresh air, watched the birds search for food in the grass and then soar to the treetops, and traced lines in the cool dirt with my bare feet. What a lovely world we have, and what a shame that we all don’t do more to keep it that way. I include myself in this, for I am as wasteful as the next person.

I don’t know what the solution is. I suppose that it is, as with many things, something that must happen one person at a time. Does the fact that we put our used cans and plastics in a bin for recycling matter? I like to think it does. One person, one effort at a time. That may have to be enough right now.

(Queen Kelley is now stepping down from her soapbox.)

A few Sundays ago, our worship choir at church sang a particularly moving anthem. I was grateful that the lyrics were printed in our bulletins and have reflected on the words several times since.

In the bulb, there is a flower; In the seed an apple tree;
In cocoons, a hidden promise: Butterflies will soon be free!
In the cold and snow of winter There’s a Spring that waits to be,
Unrevealed until its season, Something God alone can see.

There’s a song in every silence, Seeking word and melody;
There’s a dawn in every darkness, Bringing hope to you and me.
From the past will come the future; What it holds a mystery,
Unrevealed until its season, Something God alone can see.

In our end is our beginning; In our time, infinity.
In our doubt there is believing; In our life, eternity.
In our death, a resurrection; At the last, a victory,
Unrevealed until its season, Something God alone can see. (by Natalie Sleeth)

For me, this song beautifully describes my relationship with a God who at times seems so large and distant, at other times so personal; at times utterly confusing and unreal, at other times more familiar than the people I know best; at times cruel and unrelenting, and at other times long-suffering and the epitome of compassion. In other words, a God who fortunately surpasses all my human reasonings. The song reminds me of Ecclesiastes 3:1-8. It is somehow reassuring to believe that there is indeed a time for everything, and I take great comfort in knowing that even when I can’t see far enough to believe a path even exists, God is there, already at the end, seeing it all and guiding me through it.

Though I didn’t post that day, our family did celebrate and honor one of our most significant faith holidays. Dressed in our brand-new finery, we ended up having to go to church in separate cars, as Ladybug decided to take a nap right up until the beginning of the service. Finally, though, we were all on the church grounds, though in different places–the King caring for preschoolers during worship, Ladybug in the nursery, Butterfly with her pals, and me in the pew next to some friends. Our interim minister, Johnny Pierce, gave an inspiring message about the Jesus story not being “an idle tale,” and I was reminded again of the strange, almost unbelievable mystery that forms the basis of my beliefs. I won’t say I don’t question everything frequently, but I’m beginning to think that’s the only way for me to have an honest faith.

After resting and cleaning house, we were happy to welcome some of our best friends for an early egg hunt and Easter dinner. Three adorable little girls, ages 12 months, 17 months, and 3 years, traipsed around the front yard seeking eggs. Then we all sat down to a delicious meal of grilled pork tenderloin, creamy party potatoes, green beans, and then, the best–my friend’s incredible key lime cake. The kids enjoyed iced sugar cookies. The meal was tasty and the fellowship priceless.

On special holidays and every day, our family is grateful for the people we call friends and thankful to be part of a faith family that is open to wondering about, exploring, and questioning the great mystery of God even as we know deep within the truth of our hope.

The egg. It’s really a beautiful thing. Potential, density, perfection, goodness–all in one package. I realized as the weekend hit that I’d never even boiled eggs before. No matter.

My trusty Kraft “Food and Family” magazine had a simple list of instructions to follow. Who would have thought it would be so easy? Butterfly didn’t quite grasp what had happened to the eggs in the boiling water, but she was beyond excited about coloring them. I should note here that my local Wal-Mart offered NO white eggs on the Saturday before Easter. Greedy consumers like myself had completely cleaned the egg section of them. So we had to settle for cage-free, hand-gathered, brown eggs. I actually called the King and asked, “Will they color?” “Sure!” he replied. Which means, “Hurry up and get home because Butterfly’s wearing me out.”

My daughter was amazed at the bright colors the eggs displayed after we lifted them from their dye cups (with the exception of the orange and yellow ones, which still looked brown). She spent at least 15 minutes applying silly face stickers.

By the time we finished, we had a whole choir of goofy, grinning eggs. As for actually consuming our hard work, though, Butterfly has decided that she’s not sure she likes them. Upon her first bite into the soft white, she said, “These taste like Daddy’s eggs!” My husband only makes scrambled eggs mixed with a large quantity of cheese, so I think maybe she was trying to convince herself. Then she saw the yolk and exclaimed, “Yucky, Mama! I don’t like that part!” Two-thirds of the egg went into the trash.

We were expecting dear friends to join us for dinner the next day, and my husband said, “It smells like eggs in here. Open a window.” They do have a strong odor, and probably nothing is worse than the fragrance of a rotten egg. Fortunately, we haven’t experienced that from our cute egg choir. They are mostly still sitting in the fridge, though, and every time I open the door I find their smiles a bit unnerving. Wouldn’t you?

As the King reported, we enjoyed a late Christmas gift Sunday evening when we attended Steven Curtis Chapman’s final night of his “Live in this Moment” tour. What a night it was!

I first discovered Steven’s music in high school, and I’ve enjoyed all his albums released before and since then. He’s one of the most consistently entertaining, inspiring, and talented Christian musicians in the singer/songwriter ministry today. The King and I had attended one earlier concert of his, and last night’s lived up to the high expectations we built after that first performance. Steven opened the night with a reverent time of praise and worship led by his oldest son Caleb. As the King mentioned, his second son, Will Franklin, joined the band on percussion for this tour. Will was incredible, especially on the loud, rocking numbers.

Coupling a stellar performance with a heartfelt and personal plea for adoption support, Steven presented a genuine, faith-filled time of worship for the crowd. One of my favorite parts was when he sat on a stool with his guitar, accompanied only by his longtime pianist, and played excerpts from songs fans requested. My husband’s was the last song he played, which was exciting, but the whole segment was fun and a quick highlight of Steven’s mastery not only of the guitar but also of the piano (he took it over during one song!).

My other favorite part was listening to the story behind his tearjerker song “Cinderella,” then hearing him sing it while a video of dancing silhouettes played behind him. I think the King ALMOST cried. Almost. That song, like the theme of his entire tour, urges us to live in this moment*, especially regarding our children. I know I’ve often rushed through my days with the girls, feeling too stressed and busy to stop for imaginary play or a quick dance to a song. It’s important to seize these moments we have, for they will of course pass, as all moments do.

I’ll close with a few lyrics from “Miracle of the Moment”:

‘Cause we are who and where and what we are for now
And this is the only moment we can do anything about

So breathe it in and breathe it out
Listen to your heartbeat
There’s a wonder in the here and now
It’s right there in front of you
And I don’t want you to miss the miracle of the moment….

And if it brings you tears
Then taste them as they fall
Let them soften your heart

And if it brings you laughter
Then throw your head back
And let it go….

 *Steven explained that, as originally conceived, the concert title was “Live [with long 'i' sound as in 'alive'] in this Moment,” but that people had been calling it “Live [with short 'i'] in this Moment.” He admitted that either one applied! I’m going with the short “i” for this post.

Having a 3-year-old at Christmas is loads of fun. I’m not sure who was more excited this year, Butterfly or her parents! She’s had a blast playing inside her little green monster tent, hearing her new picture books read to her, pulling rubber clothes onto her tiny plastic dolls, and showing Ladybug how to enjoy her toys. Speaking of our 9-month-old, she’s been all eyes and slobbery mouth, crawling to everything she can reach and tasting it. It’s thrilling to watch our children revel in the mystery, magic, and joy of this most wonderful of holidays. I pray that as they grow, they will seek to learn more about the mysterious, magical, joyful God we honor this day. Merry Christmas to all of you! 

Reading the “Why?” section of Cornelia Funke’s website, I found a couple of her answers that emphasize (and explain much better) some of my previous post.

Do you like to write about magic? I admit, as a reader I have always loved good fantasy. I think that fantasy is the oldest way of storytelling. Fairy tales, myths … I strongly believe that we sometimes understand reality far better if we disguise it, if we find pictures and images which describe sorrow, joy, fear, and other feelings we all share. The human mind often grasps a visual image better than an abstract or realistic description, and as a writer I love to work in a genre that doesn`t forbid my imagination to work unlimited. You could say that I enjoy being able to clad reality in different clothes. I often have the feeling that writing fantasy frees the unconscious and allows things to flood onto the paper, ideas I didn`t even know I could write about. Apart from all these quite philosophical thoughts, I love to imagine riding on dragons or meeting creatures I have never met before and make them feel real for my readers.
Can a good fantasy book be religious? I think fantasy is very often about religious beliefs or ideas. They are not always as Christian as C.S. Lewis’, but the beliefs of a writer on death and life, good and evil always also reflect his or her religious beliefs. Just make sure they never overshadow your story or try to indoctrinate your readers. That is disrespectful and will cripple your storytelling!  

If you’ve been reading my blog since the beginning, you won’t be surprised that I’ve read Philip Pullman’s controversial Dark Materials trilogy and–gasp!–enjoyed it. Fantasy is one of my favorite reading genres. Something in me loves the magic, the mystery, the fanciful creations, the vast expanse of numerous worlds other than the one we know. As a child, I snuggled next to my sister (my brother played busily with this toys on the floor), while Mama read to us from Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia. I identified with Jess and Leslie as they imagined a mythical world in Paterson’s Bridge to Terebithia. Later, in college, I tackled Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings trilogy and his The Hobbit. I also discovered Cooper’s Dark Is Rising series and embarked on the powerful journey that is Rowling’s Harry Potter. Since then, I’ve thrilled to Funke’s Inkheart and Inkdeath, Bray’s historical fiction/fantasy trilogy that begins with A Great and Terrible Beauty, and, yes, Pullman’s His Dark Materials.

What’s all the fuss about fantasy? Why is it such a current fascination with readers? And why does it make some people feel so threatened?

I’ve at least figured out why I like it. In 2003, I read an article written by Natalie Burg, then a senior English major at Michigan State University, for the school’s publication The State News. She wrote, 

People are drawn to “the chosen one” much more so than they are the ordinary hero. A plot with a prophecy is always more exciting. Miraculous powers seem to be a hit as well. Wait a minute…chosen one, prophecy, miracles, conquering evil…there seems to be another book based around these things. …My devotion to Harry Potter is a result of my devotion to my faith. J. K. Rowling has made a little messiah. And I’m buying it.

As I read Natalie’s words, I realized that something in me is indeed drawn to this type of mythical hero. I also thought of something I once read about C. S. Lewis and his pal J. R. R. Tolkien. Late into the night more than half a century ago, Tolkien, Lewis, and others talked about faith. By the time the sun came up the next morning, Lewis was convinced that Tolkien was right: as Lewis had always thought, Christianity was a great myth–complete with war, betrayal, curses and blessings, and of course a tragic hero (who just happened to be not so tragic in the end). What Tolkien had conveyed to Lewis, however, was that this myth was different from fantastic stories invented by human minds. This myth was true. Lewis became a Christian and the rest is history.

I don’t know how accurate that story is, but it’s been told in biographies and writings about both men. I cling to it because it validates what is truly my obsession with stories like Frodo’s, Harry’s, Lyra’s, and even Luke Skywalker’s. It’s okay for me to get caught up in their adventures and perils because, ultimately for me, they point to the greatest adventure of all–that of being a follower of Jesus Christ. (Plus, they’re simply fantastic reads!)

As to why some people feel threatened by fantasy books and films, I imagine it’s because they’ve been told fantasy is dangerous and counter to the teachings of God; that any mention of witches or wizards, magic, sorcery, spirits, etc. constitutes evil. Of course, I tend to disagree. For me, fantasy, which highlights the classic battle between good and evil and frequently employs imagery like that found in the biblical book of Revelation, often parallels or at least complements my faith. I certainly can’t make up another’s mind, though, and I must leave it to each person to decide.

I see nothing wrong with reading fantasy books or viewing fantasy films. Every individual is entitled to his or her opinion, but I do hope such opinions are at least researched and grounded on facts, rather than hearsay. It is ridiculous to me that people take up arms against something they personally know little or nothing about.

In closing, I recommend this blog article by Jeannie Babb Taylor. Her first two paragraphs say it all to me. Enjoy!

Enough of that depressing post.

This week and always, I am thankful (in no particular order)

-that my husband lets me sleep in EVERY DAY, even if it means he has to go to work tired or come home a bit later to make up for it.

-for every new skill Ladybug learns, from using her tiny fingers to grasp Cheerios (and thus sit at the table more happily) to crawling across the floor after something she wants.

-for Butterfly’s vivid imagination that entertains her and me as she invents stories and songs and plays contentedly in her own special world.

-for some of the best girlfriends a woman could ask for, who share my love for chocolate and, more importantly, who share with me and hear from me our deepest thoughts and most heartfelt desires with no judgment whatsoever.

-for Mama, whose willingness to listen to me and talk to me through the years has made me the confident, successful, content wife and mother I am today; and for Daddy, whose relationship with me has blossomed tenfold since the birth of my own children.

-for my mother-in-law who is, judging from the horror stories I hear from other women, a rarity–kind, nonjudgmental, complimentary, wonderfully entertaining to my girls, helpful, and thoughtful; and for my father-in-law, one of the steadiest men I know, sure of what he believes and completely unafraid to stand up for it.

-for my newly married brother and his wife, who live on a state park and love the natural world; and for my sister, who is only a year younger than me but who retains a lion’s share of the spirit of our childhoods and a shy sense of humor that pops up at unexpected moments.

-that I grew up living close to and knowing not only both sets of grandparents, but a precious great-grandmother, aunts and uncles, and nearly a dozen cousins, and that the bonds we formed continue today.

-for an extra-special husband and wife who once taught me Sunday school and now are some of my most treasured friends, always willing to lend a hand, spend time laughing, and love on my girls like a third set of grandparents.

-for my husband’s sense of humor that keeps me from taking life too seriously, which I am known to do.

-for a company that is helping me fulfill my dreams of editing books for a living AND being at home to watch my children grow.

-for a little group of writer friends who have provided immense encouragement, suggestions, and support as I struggle to find time to finish my manuscript.

-for my church that has been on the mountain and in the valley and continues to thrive, providing a place where we can explore our heaviest theological doubts and questions and spend time with our most cherished friends.

-that, even with all my wonderings and skepticisms, God is ever present in so many ways.

-that the King is such a fabulous father, going above and beyond any expectations in caring for our two girls, even giving up much-needed time for himself to be with them.

-for gorgeous, mild days spent on the lawn, watching the clouds, feeling the breeze, running through the crunchy leaves, exploring every nook and cranny of our yard.

-for Butterfly’s “big hugs” and kisses, her songs she sings at the top of her lungs, the adorable things she says, the way she is learning independence, her precious drawings and the descriptions she offers for them, her priceless individuality (a “mud” princess who likes dirt and rocks, prefers blocks and Mickey Mouse to baby dolls, and would listen to me read books all day), her huge hazel-blue eyes and long dark lashes, the small round birthmark on her back, the dimple in her left cheek, her blatant honesty, and much more than I could ever pinpoint.

-for Ladybug’s wide-open grin, her giggles when I tickle her, her sloppy wet kisses, the way she climbs all over me when I lie on the floor, the way she breathes hard through her wrinkled nose just to be cute, her striking blue eyes so like her Daddy’s, the dimple in her right cheek, her soft baby skin, her unbelievably fuzzy blond head that I could rub my lips on all day, the way she smells after a bath, those squeezable fat rolls, her pleasant attitude toward most anyone (as long as they don’t try to hold her right away), her laid-back attitude, the way she says “ma ma ma ma,” and much more than I could ever pinpoint.

-for the gift of watching my daughters grow.

-for my husband’s siblings and the beautiful nieces and nephews they have provided us.

-for the sacrifice my brother- and sister-in-law are making by serving as missionaries in Africa, a place that is starved for love as much as for basic needs.

-for the opportunity to work with the teenagers, elementary-aged children, and preschoolers of my church; knowing them all has been a treasure.

-for amazing writers who craft timeless stories.

-for good movies, simple as that.

-for the King, again, who is my true partner in every way–a fun companion, a fellow traveler on the journey, a great hugger and hand-holder, a true friend, an amazing leader in every venture of his life, a respected and hard worker, a protector and ever faithful supporter…always.

-for a refrigerator full of food and the money to buy more; for fresh, clean water even in a time of drought; for freedom to believe and worship as I choose if I choose; for shelter, nice, comfortable, spacious shelter that contains more than I need; for safe vehicles to drive; for two faithful, loving dogs; for a friendly neighborhood; for my education…

…and much more than I could ever pinpoint.

Madeleine L’Engle, who wrote several dozen books, passed away September 6. She and C. S. Lewis were responsible for opening to me the world of fantasy. I’ve only begun to delve into the rich collection of her writing, but A Wrinkle in Time will always be a favorite. I love her imagination of the possibilities of time and space travel, and especially her willingness to put science with faith and show that they can coexist magnificently and even reinforce each other. This article highlights tributes to a woman whom readers everywhere will remember.

Occasionally, when I think about writing my young adult novel (I actually have 40 double-spaced pages of writing, but lately I do more ruminating than anything else), I delve into my abundant collection of journals and writings from my childhood and teen years. I want to validate that some of my character’s reactions to her experiences are believable from a girl her age. And yes, I consider myself a somewhat accurate source of validation, as I was a girl her age once.

In my delving, I happened upon reflections about my beloved maternal grandfather, who, at age 66, died in 1993 from treatment complications for lung cancer. One example is these excerpts from an essay I wrote in tenth grade at age 15. I begin with his diagnosis and conclude with the aftermath of his death.

It was November of 1990 and I had just turned thirteen. Being a teenager was already beginning to take its toll on my life. Sudden mood swings were not uncommon, and I would often find myself in my room pouring my heart out while listening to the most dismal songs. The silliest things would set me off: the girls at school had prettier clothes than me, a certain boy had failed to notice my attempts for attention, or Daddy would hand me a harsh word for talking on the phone too much. During those times I would resort to feeling sorry for myself and to thinking of no one but me. Aside from this new adolescence, however, I was mostly a happy person. It’s odd how the news of Granddaddy didn’t devastate me, but I was young and ignorant and incapable of believing something bad could happen to anyone close to me. Meanwhile, he was undergoing surgery and treatments and having to endure the terrible side effects that result from them.

…I see 1992 as a “preparatory” year. It was the year that helped me get ready for what was to come. Many times I struggled with hidden feelings, forever wondering “why?” I pondered many puzzling questions. Why my Granddaddy? Why do medicines designed to make you feel better make you feel worse? Why is God putting our family through this immense trial? I was only fourteen, and I felt totally useless. There was nothing I could do to help him. I couldn’t even find the answers to my questions….

Christmas of 1992 is an especially memorable time. I relished each happy moment and was left with an odd sense of emptiness after each enjoyable event. I desperately craved to put a hold on time, and was careful to record each detail of everything we did, even down to what we ate. As the family and I opened our gifts, I snuck glances at Granddaddy, who was slumped on the couch where he could see everyone. He seemed content and peaceful, but extremely exhausted. He was wearing down.

…Almost immediately following Easter, Granddaddy developed pneumonia, a common occurrence in lung cancer patients. I saw him for the last time on April 12, 1993. My aunt Laurie took cousins John and Cori and me to the hospital. Granddaddy was drifting in and out of a restless sleep, but he awoke to say hello, squeeze our hands rather tightly, then again later to say goodbye. He was able to return home for a couple of weeks, then was rushed back to the hospital when his breathing became difficult. I often experience uncomfortable feelings of guilt that I did not go to see him again, and I have to remind myself that I was indeed able to say goodbye.

…On Saturday, May 1, 1993, I was in my room when the telephone rang. Minutes later, Daddy came to my room and told me gently, “Granddaddy died a little while ago.” So strong was the sympathy in his voice, and so powerful was the meaning of those six words, that when he left I shut my door and crumpled to the floor in tears. All I could think was, “It’s finally over.”

…The funeral took place on May 3, 1993 in the little Woodland Methodist church. That morning my aunt Robin took Cori and me to the funeral home to see his body. It was shocking to see him lying there so still when he had once been so full of life, and my head began to spin. I clutched Cori’s hand for support, then reflected on how well he looked. The rosy color had returned to his flesh, replacing the dull pallor we had become accustomed to. A feeling of peace came over me, for I was assured he was in a better place and that I would see him again some day.

THE BIG “WHY?”
Why do little children suffer?
Perhaps of all questions this is the hardest.
The little ones of Vietnam,
Who do not know the meaning of the conflict,
But who know it all too well.
The little ones who have neither bread nor heat
And without blame suffer inside and out.
The little ones who are dreadfully sick
Who cry out in hurt and pain.
The little ones just old enough to know enough
To endure heroically, and to fight back manfully.
For adults who have shared in sin,
And here and there have failed to do
What they should have done,
And who perhaps each one carries within himself
Some reason for blame or punishment—
For them to suffer is to some degree understandable,
But why? Why, God, should wonderful, little
Innocent, helpless children suffer?
Why?
Let one who has stood beside
His own dear child and daily
Watched him endure in his body
Pain and suffering—
Let such a one talk, and
I will try to listen.
But, please, no glib answer from one
Who has not entered a child’s suffering.
Perhaps for me, this is the largest of questions.
Perhaps only God can answer this question,
Because perhaps only God knows.

—From Getting Beyond Tragedy, by James Phillips Noble (written in 1968 when Dr. Noble’s son, Scott, lost his battle with childhood leukemia)

Perhaps for me, too, this is the largest of questions. Why should children suffer? For several years now, I have kept track of numerous families whose children have either suffered and died or are still struggling with an illness/disability. Their parents, who exhibit a strength beyond my comprehension, write the children’s stories in blogs and journals, detailing events as simple as creating something from playdough or as complex as enduring a chemo treatment. For a while, the families stayed at a distance, separated from me by miles and the fact that I did not know them personally.

Then the suffering struck closer. My blogroll links to “Midgets and Moonpies,” the blog of a woman I knew in college. More than 10 years ago, she served as the assistant to my professor for a freshman experience class. Together, our class read books, then wrote about them and discussed various themes and topics. Jenny was a friendly face and an encouraging support in a world that felt new and rather frightening at times. Who knew that I’d get back in touch with Jenny long after graduation when I learned about her immense trial?

Diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor on her first birthday…her FIRST birthday…Jenny’s daughter fought courageously for more than three years before complications of necessary treatment took her life this past January. I cannot even begin to imagine the range of emotions Jenny and her husband experienced as they let go of a daughter one week and welcomed a newborn daughter the next.

Many of the children I have followed are no longer with their families. Many still fight, some experiencing treatment side effects to rival the gruesomeness of a horror film. Every now and then, for the briefest of moments, I allow myself to imagine one of my children slipping away from me. The mere thought is unbearable and causes an ache deep within me unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’m ever mindful, especially when reading posts like Jenny’s, that many families don’t have the luxury of imagining. For them, this is real, and it is part of their everyday lives.

Yes, this has become my largest of questions regarding God’s role in the world (and on some occasions, I must admit, regarding whether God even exists). Why do little children suffer? I’m nearly convinced that there is no why. There is only the fact that our world is fallen, that sometimes horrible things happen to the best (and most innocent) of people, and that sometimes, no matter how fervently or faithfully we pray, our prayers will not be answered in the way we desire so deeply.

Recently, however, I’ve gained a different perspective. In Between the Gates, Chuck Poole writes,

Sometimes prayer changes our lives, and sometimes life changes our prayers. Sometimes prayer changes the direction in which life is going, but sometimes prayer can only keep moving in an effort to catch up to life. Sooner or later we all find ourselves in Gethsemane. We start out praying for everything to be fine, and we end up coming to terms with what we must face, accepting realities we cannot change; adjusting, adjusting, adjusting.

…All of that is clear-eyed realism, and it is all true. But there is more to life than clear-eyed realism; there is also wide-eyed hope. After all, remember what happened to Jesus after he left Gethsemane. The bitter cup he dreaded turned out to be every bit as bad as he feared. His pain was awful. His suffering was terrible. And he died. But tragedy and death did not have the last word. The last word belonged to God. When God raised Jesus from the grave, God brought unimaginable joy, goodness, and triumph from unspeakable pain, sorrow, and loss.

And ever since, whenever anything has looked like a total loss and a terrible end, people have had to adjust their thinking to make room for hope.

Hope is what I read in Jenny’s writing, even as she shares her raw grief. Where would any of us be without hope?

I have a friend who, after his father died, said he’d never hoped more that there was a heaven than he did right then. Hope. Emily Dickinson wrote that it’s a “thing with feathers.” I’ve always identified with that image.

I don’t live each day in fear that some dark shadow hangs above me and my family, just waiting to engulf us when we least expect it. That’s no way to live. But I do keep checking in with families like Jenny’s because I need to remember that these things do happen and that people manage to continue living even after enduring great suffering. It also makes me a much better mom and wife. Finally, it emphasizes the essential quality of hope.

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
—Emily Dickinson

This article is definitely controversial. As evident from my earlier posts about Harry Potter, I tend to agree with those who find Christian themes in the books. But I know that many disagree wholeheartedly. What do you think?

Those who know me well know what I was doing last Saturday–watching the fifth Harry Potter film on IMAX, my 3-D glasses hanging around my neck in anticipation of the wand battle within the Ministry of Magic. Those who know me also know to give me a wide berth this Saturday because, even if I must wait for the princesses to go to sleep, I will at least get started on Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It is, after all, the final entry in a world-renowned series 17 years in the making. There are plenty who think someone like me should make a statement by avoiding anything related to the boy wizard, but I’ve been a fan(atic) since book 3 debuted. The books certainly have faults, but I disagree that the story is a dud or inherently evil. Something good has kept me reading (and watching) these several years.

I see these works as some of the latest contributions to stories about the perpetual battle between good and evil. Greek mythology, The Pilgrim’s Progress, Dante’s Inferno, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, The Chronicles of Narnia, the Star Wars films. Some are much more intentional and allegorical, but at it’s simplest, it’s as basic as that…at least to me. I respect that many people would disagree on several levels, and they should feel free to comment.

As for God and Harry Potter, a friend forwarded an article whose author (whom I just happen to know) identifies three foundational lessons reinforced by the Potter books. Find it here.

With so many different opinions of this particular series of books, in the end I believe some of us must agree to disagree. I’ll keep enjoying the books and films for what they are to me–parts of a fantastic story about characters I’ve grown to love. (Please don’t kill Harry, Jo, even though I know it would make the most literary sense.)