MIND-BLOWING MUFFINS!

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The other day I made some muffins that were soooooooooooooo good. I think what made them special to me is that the base recipe was my Gramma Norberg's. The rest consisted of add-ins I had on hand in my fridge, pantry, etc.
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I'm a lover of layered flavors . . . maybe that's some kind of metaphor for the way I enjoy a multi-layered (sometimes crazy) life! All I know is that the banana mixing with chocolate and citrus was a delight to my taste buds.

Try 'em! If you like layered-flavors, you'll definitely like these!

Gramma's Banana Bread Muffins

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1 cup sugar
1/2 cup butter (at room temperature)
2 eggs

2 cups flour (1 cup cake/ 1 cup bread) - (I use all purpose)

1 teaspoon baking soda

3 bananas (mashed)

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Cream first three ingredients in a medium sized bowl with an electric mixer. Gently mix in the the remaining ingredients. Pour into greased muffin tins, dust each muffin with a teaspoon of granulated sugar and bake at 350 for 25 minutes.

My Add-Ins:

1/2 bar of Ghirardelli chocolate bar, cut into chunks (chocolate chips would be fine, too)

Rind from one orange (grated on a rasper)

Juice from same orange

1 small package of Macadamia nuts (or whatever nut you have on hand)

After mixing ingredients for the standard recipe, stir in the following, then follow the rest of the above directions.

(I've also added a can of crushed pineapple with the nuts. Yum!)

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CREDO
What Do You Believe?

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Cheri and I sent a crazy fiction proposal to a rather large Christian publisher several seasons ago. The editor we contacted was interested/intrigued in our out-of-the-box, slightly-unorthodox ideas (at least enough to ask for sample chapters). Still, we got the message that the guy was a little freaked out by our exceedingly grace-laced ideals when he asked us to e-mail our 'Statement of Faith.' After giggling a little; we created a modern paraphrase of the Apostle's Creed and sent it sailing through cyber-space.

I'd be remiss not to mention that though the editor's request kinda ticked me off in the moment. Today, I can fully understand his druthers. He had a reputation to uphold, the name of a reputable publishing house to protect. All he needed was a couple of insane stay-at-home-mamas to mess that all up with their loony imaginations!

Regardless of our solid barrings in the faith, our deeply dug Evangelical roots, our regurgitation of the Apostle's Creed, our distinctly Christian education from Wheaton College, and what we thought was a great idea; the manuscript didn't get picked up.

That's O.K.

My only regret is that we didn't have the poem I wrote this morning in church (during a kinda dry sermon) to send in lieu of our 'Statement of Faith.' Somehow, in a strange way and even though I completely embrace the Apostle's Creed, I think the poem is my truest Soul's Credo:

I Believe

I believe in Story, in stars, green grass & rain,

I believe in autumn leaves and natives on the plain

I believe in football games on Sunday & in my yard,

And milk-up-the-nose laughing that spurts out long & hard

I believe in arcs & whales & bread from bright blue sky

In caterpillars that get wings just after they die

I believe in Goldilocks & Three Bears in their den

I believe in One True Myth that died and rose again

Have you ever taken a moment to consider what you believe in the deepest, craziest, most honest, imaginative corner of your soul? If you have - and you're willing to share - post your thoughts here & I'll add them to my blog. Thanks!

Here, I'll get you started: I BELIEVE . . .

TREASURE IN A SUPERMAN BACKPACK

Today I found a treasure in my son Ben's backpack. It was two pieces of paper - the elementary school kind - with an extra dotted line to house wild, wondrous, some times indiscernible letters. The papers were scrawled with Ben's gorgeous, eye-pleasing, second grade scribbles and colorful illustrations. Stapled to the paper, a note from his teacher:

Dear Parents,

The class wrote personal narratives. First they brainstormed their ideas on a graphic organizer. They wrote a first draft and then edited it with me . . .

The writer in me perked up. I wonder how my son did with this assignment? Has he, perhaps, caught the Writers' Bug?! The curious mom in me stood at full attention. What could he possibly have written about?! What is racing 'round that juvenile, imaginative tabula rasa? I quickly flipped the teacher's note to the back of the treasure, almost liberating it with a riiiiiiip!

In the middle of the kitchen - one of the most holy, sacred sanctuaries of our home - I read:

THE DAY MY SISTER CAME HOME
by Ben

My sister came home from China at dinner time. At first she did not want us to see her. But then she ended up liking us.

After dinner my sister pulled me and my brother around the house. Finally we got to open our presents. They were panda shirts.

When we went to bed my sister cried. My mom asked her what was wrong. She said, "I want Ben." So I came in and I picked her up and took her in my bed.

But the only thing I do not like about my litter sister is she pinches me.

I love my sister.

As I post this blog entry I know that something has gotten lost in my transcription. It is Ben's handwriting: the tilting 'A's' and heavily filled-in periods, the reworked 'W's' and swirly 'O's' that speak so strongly of a brother's love for his sister who 'came home at dinner time.'

Meet My
New
Public Relations Assistant



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Julie MacManus

Julie MacManus, a wife and mother lives in Allen, TX. She's a Wheaton College Graduate with a Bachelors in Music Education. For several post-graduate years she traveled around the globe doing employee training in exotic and off-the-beaten-path places like Jakarta, Indonesia, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, and her favorite, Cambridge, England. After marrying Jim, Julie served for 2 1/2 years in Care Ministries of Stonebriar Church. There she ministered to congregants celebrating weddings or funerals, church members in financial need, those needing visitation during hospital stays or with home-bound illnesses.

Julie is musical, extroverted, mercy-bearing and a hoot to be around! She gives generously, loves easily, and is always open with a listening ear. If she's looking for a special treat, Julie heads to Marble Slab for cheesecake ice cream with mini chocolate chips. If she's watchin' the tube, she tunes in to Lingo, Law & Order, The Amazing Race or Barefoot Contessa. When she's not busy with her one-year-old, Jillian, Julie also likes to sing at her church, spend time with good friends, and read. Her favorite author is Madeleine L'Engle. You'd find L'Engle's first novel, A Small Rain is waiting on her bedside table if you looked today.

A couple favorite meals at Julie's home home are Pepperoni Pizza with Digorno’s Harvest Wheat Rising Crust, homemade tomato soup, and lentil soup. Here's a favorite recipe from the MacManus Kitchen:
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Chicken Tortilla Soup
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2-4 Tbsp. oil
1 medium onion, chopped
4 garlic cloves, chopped
Salt and Pepper
2 cans Rotel Tomatoes (10 oz., mild)
2 cans chicken broth
1 can beef broth
1 Tbsp. Cumin
1 Tbsp. Chili Powder
2 Tbsp. Worcestershire sauce
2-3 chicken breast, fully cooked and cubed
¼ cup rice

Heat oil, sauté onion and garlic, season with salt and pepper cook for 4-5 minutes until tender. Add tomatoes, broths, cumin, chili powder, Worcestershire sauce, and cooked chicken. Simmer for 40 minutes then add rice and simmer another 20 minutes until rice is cooked.

If you need information on my books, or if you're interested in inviting me to speak at one of your women's retreats or other gatherings, Julie MacManus is the person to contact. She'll readily answer your questions, provide you with public relations materials, inform you of radio broadcasts, book signings, and other note-worthy happenings.
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To contact Julie, please e-mail her at jmacmanus@tx.rr.com or call (972)679-1655.

WHAT MAKES A FAITH-FILLED FRIENDSHIP?

A few months ago TODAY'S CHRISTIAN WOMAN asked Cheri Mueller and me to write an article about faith-filled friendship. After days of parlay and debate (even arguing) over the topic we came up with our take. Our piece was ultimately titled SOUL SISTERS: 4 Ways To Foster Spiritual Friendships. Even after it was printed, though, we still felt as if defining soulful friendship was like trying to pin the wings of a butterfly.

It makes me wonder:

• What's your take on faith-filled friendship?


• What sets soul sisters apart from other kinds of friends?


• What defines spiritual friendship?


• What makes it a quintessential part of our lives?


• How do you define soulful friendship?
  

I'd love to hear from you. So, please join a Girl Talk . . . God Talk Conversation by sharing your ideas here. Jot down your thoughts by posting a comment on this entry during January. Share a sentence, share a story, share a paragraph, or two, or twenty. My assistant and I will choose several of our favorite comments and include them in a blog entry on February 1, 2008. I'll also post the complete article, SOUL SISTERS: 4 Ways To Foster Spiritual Friendships (along with a hilarious FRIENDSHIP QUIZ that accompanied it in TCW) for a Valentine's Day Post.

If your entry is selected for the February 1st post, you'll win a free copy of GIRL TALK . . . GOD TALK: What Your Friends Can Teach You About Prayer! (If you already have Girl Talk, we'll send you The Bible Is A Girls Best Friend: Experiencing a Fresh Encounter with God's Word, or Walk with Me: Two Friends On A Spiritual Journey Together.) Any of the books, by the way, would make a great Valentine's Day gift for a friend!

Thanks for joining the conversation,

Sally

Laughter as Prayer

An Excerpt from

Girl Talk . . . God Talk: What Your Friends Can Teach You About Prayer

There is a time for everything . . .
a time to weep and a time to laugh.
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GIRL TALK

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Hannah is one of the funniest women I know. She has an uncanny ability to find humor
in ordinary life. Whenever I need a good laugh, she’s the one I call. She brings lightness to my days with her witty comments and prankster personality. She truly understands that laughter is the best medicine (Proverbs 17:22).

Every year I host an ornament-making party during Advent. My closest friends gather by the fire, string cranberries and drink wassail. Heather inevitably brings a gag hostess gift for me. Last year she handed me a box. Inscribed on the card was a rhyme:
You’ve been naughty that’s the scoop.
All you get is snowman poop.

I lifted the lid to find five puffy, jumbo-sized marshmallows nestled inside.

Hannah has a way of making almost any moment lighthearted. I was with her when she gave birth to her first child. It had been a long labor. But after over forty hours, Hannah finally dilated to ten centimeters. It was time for her to push. Everyone in the room, including her husband and midwife, was exhausted and fearful. We were worried that, after the treacherous, back stabbing labor, she wouldn’t have the strength to get the baby through the birth canal.

After three pushes, and in the throes of another contraction, Heather cried out, “Can I get a stunt double in here . . . PLEEEEASE?” Everyone in the room doubled over in laughter. Heather bore down, and Max was born.

A comedian at heart, Hannah’s gift at humor helps her cope in life. It also brings lots of smiles my way. Time after time when I’m laboring with a problem in my life, Hannah helps me see the lighter side.

One day, I was talking to Hannah on the phone. I told her that I was concerned about not feeding my kids three ‘square meals’ a day, due to our frequent stops at McDonalds. She giggled, and said, “I guess I’m really in trouble with the ‘Nutrition Squad,’ then. Last night, as a practical joke, I gave my kids ‘mashed potatoes and gravy’ that was really ice cream doused in caramel sauce. Heather and I giggled and found refreshment in the shared burden of cooking for a full house.

Hannah always gives me the freedom to laugh at myself, and all of the absurdity found in life, too. She follows in Sara’s steps. In Genesis, Sara, a woman barren for years, learns to celebrate and laugh at life’s absurd twists. In her old age, she gives birth to a son. When he’s born, she names him Isaac, which actually means laughter. Holding Isaac, Sara declares, “God has brought me laughter, and everyone who hears about this will laugh with me” (Genesis 21:6).

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Like Sara, Hannah laughs at the improbable punch lines of the Lord. And, she invites others to chuckle along with her. I’m happy to say that my laughter quotient has doubled since I met Hannah. And, my heart is glad to see the humorous side of God through her.

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GOD TALK

God is the one who made the music of laughter and gave us all our smiles. He’s not too holy to handle throw-your-head-back laughter. He’s the one who created it. Unfortunately, most pictures portray Jesus as solemn and sad. This really bugged Hannah. So, she jumped for joy when Ralph Kozak painted a portrait called ‘Jesus Laughing.’ She carries a wallet-sized copy in her purse.

Jesus must’ve done a lot of laughing. He spent most of His adult life with a troupe of gangly guy friends who walked together, slept together, and ate every meal together. I can picture Him punching his buddies’ arms with playful, inside jokes about Peter’s over zealous nature, and John’s soft side. I can hear Jesus whooping and hollering with the gang as they tell heroic fishing tall tales.

When I read the Bible with God’s sense of humor in mind, jokes appear at every turn. Just the other day, I was reading in the book of Numbers. There, I encountered a story about the Israelites in the middle of their forty-year jaunt through the desert. They were sick and tired of eating manna. So, they complained to Moses, “If only we had meat to eat! We remember the fish we ate in Egypt at no cost – also the cucumbers, melons, leeks, onions and garlic. But now we have lost our appetite; we never see anything but this manna” (Numbers 11:4 & 5)!
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The next day God sent down showers of quails. In fact, He gave them so much meat that it began to ‘come out of their nostrils and they began to loathe it’ (Numbers 11:20). I can just see God cracking up on His heavenly throne. Instead of warning the Israelites about their complaining, He gave them what they asked for, and it was funny.

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I think God loves to laugh. He endorses laughter and cheer over and over:

-filling Job’s mouth with laughter (Job 8:21);
-loving cheerful givers (2 Corinthians 9:7);
-recommending laughter as good medicine (Proverbs 17:22);
-encouraging us to take heart and be of good cheer (John 16:33).

Unfortunately, when I think of communing with God, laughter is not the first thing on my mind. Instead, I usually picture a more solemn kind of connection. Solemnity is part of my prayer life. But, Heather has helped me realize that conversations with God should not exclude a human, humorous, lighthearted kind of connection. Though I can cry to God, and sit with Him in silence; it is also O.K. to laugh, hoot, and smile during my talks with Him.

One evening Hannah and I were praying together. I had been struggling with some chronic back pain. She came to pray for help and healing. Our dinner must’ve been exceptionally rich that night, because I was extremely flatulent during her prayers. The first time I ‘fluffed’ Hannah kept right on praying. But, the third ‘toot’ sounded as resonant as a high ‘A’ on a French Horn.

Mid prayer, Hannah combusted into a fit of laughter. It came out of her mouth in hoots, and her nose in snorts! Her fit was contagious, and I began laughing, too. The room roared with our ruckus. I think God must’ve been having a chuckle right along with us. In fact, the laughter we shared became our prayer.

A good laugh is as good as a prayer sometimes. – Lucy Maud Montgomery

January's Prayer

I'm a collector. I collect seeds and quilts, sparkly costume jewelry and rocks. For the past several years (ever since completing Girl Talk . . . God Talk: What Your Friends Can Teach You About Prayer) I've been collecting prayers. I think the prayers - printed off the Internet, clipped from church bulletins, scratched on scrap paper - which I keep in an everyday manila folder have become my favorite collection. It struck me today, as I was praying an online prayer, that it might be a good idea to share a monthly prayer on this blog. Following is January's Prayer and the story behind it:

January's Prayer is a little quixotic. Still, it's particularly poignant to me this month as I pray for my dear friend, Margie's husband, John, whose bones have been weakened, compromised, excruciatingly pained by metastasized Brain Cancer. A couple short years ago, I stood beside Margie as she labored valiantly and bore her first son. I watched as John caught his newly born baby boy, fresh from God! This summer -in disbelief - I listened to stories of a man in China sending healing herbs for John because his fiercely aggressive and relentless Brain Cancer had begun to compromise cells in John's blood and bones.

As I read January's Prayer for the first time, I was struck at some of the intercedings: mend broken bones, bring wholeness again . . catch my babies . . . show me the medicine of the healing herbs. This prayer has been prayed for hundreds of years, yet today it was perfectly pertinent to John: to the specific details of his life. It always strikes me as more than serendipity when ancient prayers echo the cries of our current, contemporary hearts!

The last stanza of the prayer reads, heal my heart/so that I can see/the gifts of yours that can live through me. It has struck me silly, as I've walked with John and Margie through this difficult season that God's gifts of Grace, Beauty, Faithfulness, Hope, Assurance, and Love have been living through my friends. For more on their inspirational, honest, daily journey, check out Margie's blog: http://margiefawcett.blogspot.com/

Before, I share January's Prayer, it is interesting to consider its first line: Mother, sing me a song . . .

If we're used to addressing God as Father, the invocation can throw us for a loop until we consider the God of the Psalms under whose wings we take refuge, who is near to the brokenhearted, who pulls us close to his divine breast. Or if we consider the God of Matthew 23:37, who says, "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing." Healing is such a maternal act of nurturing, nesting grace. When we ask God for a healing touch, it can be comforting to imagine the Lord of Life with a divinely maternal side; and maybe even call God Mother.
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Native American Prayer for Healing

Mother, sing me a song

That will ease my pain.

Mend broken bones

Bring wholeness again.

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Catch my babies
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When they are born,

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Sing my death song,
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Teach me how to mourn.
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Show me the medicine

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Of the healing herbs,
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The value of Spirit,
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The way I can serve.

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Mother, heal my heart

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So that I can see
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The gifts of yours

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That can live through me.
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After publishing this post, I was thinking about collecting prayers. I decided God is a collector of prayers too: our prayers! Amen.

CARRIERS OF THE GOSPEL
(an excerpt from Play with Me: Two Friends on a Spiritual Journey with Kids)

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Seeing my sister-in-love over Christmas, feeling her son's heel and bum and elbow through earth-round belly reminded me of Mary's first pregnancy, the pregnancies of some of my closest friends and of my own first pregnancy.

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The incarnation kicks with verve, unpredictability, and wildness when we consider God approaching us in something as sensory as pregnancy. Two thousand years ago God did, in fact, come to us through a pregnancy: Mary's. Today, he still touches us through pregnancies, babies, growing children. Christ with is - even in us - the hope of glory always comes in real, organic, sometimes nauseating, and definitely life-giving ways.

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My friend Cheri and I shared discussions, poems, prose, even recipes about this very idea in the second book we co-authored, Play with Me: Two Friends on a Spiritual Journey with Kids. Enjoy an excerpt and some poetry from that book:

CARRIERS OF THE GOSPEL

Pregnancy is mysterious. A baby moving within you can feel as monumental as an earthquake, as scary as an alien invasion. Cheri and I had the honor of going through our pregnancies (and even one of my labors) together. First, Cheri carried Jennifer. Then, came my Ben. Her Ryker and my Ayden overlapped for a few months. (I can still feel the way Cheri and I bounced off of each others’ hard, round bellies when we tried to hug a greeting or goodbye, baby Ryker and Ayden meeting through layers of uterus, placenta, flesh.) A few years later, came the joy of Sean. And, last but not least, Emily, who was added through the adoptive grace of a paper pregnancy.

After Cheri’s baby shower for Jen, I remember playing one of my favorite songs for her. Cheri said that Jen responded with vigorous movement. Was she dancing in response to my voice, to the melody, to the piano’s timbre? Could it have been a response to the lyrics which sang about the warmth of a summer afternoons, catchin’ fireflies, buildin’ castles, kissing Mama’s face, and holdin’ Daddy’s hand? Cheri’s body served as soundboard for the harmonies. Her soul, for the lyrical truths. I still wonder what exactly caused Jennifer’s leap from the secret place. I wonder if it was more connected to me, to Cheri, or to God – the Real Music.

All women who have carried a child experience pokes and somersaults in response to specific sounds or voices. I remember Ben responding strongly to my father-in-law’s resonant voice. I always thought it represented the ripe, older, someday-fullness of Bryan, my husband’s tenor, turned bass with age and experience. I knew intuitively that Ben could hear the connection.

Maybe the movement of babes prompts us to listen along with them. Maybe they have ears to hear the things we miss.

Another fascinating phenomena related to carrying babies is the way they all behave so differently inutero. Friend after friend has told me “he was moving like a gymnast inside of me, and hasn’t stopped since birth.” Or, “she was so quiet within me, and her docile personality at age sixteen matches her sleepiness as a baby.” Even John the Baptist was already declaring the Way of the Lord from his mother Elizabeth’s old, revived womb.

Picture it. An old woman tired from sun and sand, work and barrenness, full with child. Just finished with the evening meal, she stokes the fire under the stew one last time. She considers her husband, Zacharias’ note requesting honey cakes for dessert. Feeling the exhaustion of a long, pregnant day, she decides to sit down in the shade of a tree. Awkwardly Elizabeth squats, trying to get her old, full-with-child body onto the dusty ground. And, mid grunt, she catches a glimpse of her cousin, Mary, on the far side of the nearest hill.

The two pregnant women greet each other. Belly to belly, their sons meet in the hill country of Judah. When Elizabeth’s babe hears Mary’s voice, he kicks so hard, it bends her over in pain, laughter and joy. It was one of those kicks right in the ribs that reminded Elizabeth that she’d not be able to share her body with the large, growing baby boy much longer. The maker of the way and The Way touch ultrasonically. John announces the Good News of Jesus. The cousins hear. Elizabeth asks Mary to stay for stew. “Let’s make honey cakes,” she adds.

As they walk, hand in hand, into the home, they giggle and revel about the ways of God. Their lives have both been turned upside down by His mysterious ways, and they’re thrilled to share in the unpredictable journey of faith together. Jesus came to Mary. Then to Elizabeth, through Mary.

He comes to us in our babies, and the children of our friends and families. We feel them leaping in us, begging us to listen. We receive them in us, and they bring Jesus to us the same way Mary did to Elizabeth. Just as Mary carried the Gospel, so do we.

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GROWING DOWN

by Cheri Mueller

inspired by Mike Mason's The Mystery of Children

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My child and guide,

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Teach me to be a holy hoodlum

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love Recklessly abandoned to a rib-tickling God.

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Topple my pride with your toddler tunes

love Chanting the Psalms like a Mother Goose chorus.

love You circle and prance till the verse begs you fall

love Mussing starched clothes in the mud and the merry.

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Whisper to me the secrets of faith

love You wiggle your way into space oh so scared

love Breathing the green in a musty closet of clothes

love Marveling at the magic in this forest-wild world

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Learn me the unknown language of tears

love All propriety ignored as you wail from you soul

love Weep for the untamed darkness, and pain of new birth

love Your crying is confidence in a Father who cares.

Some Children See Him

Christmas Eve morn I was putting dishes from breakfast in the dishwasher. My trinity of children, Ben, Ayden and Emily begged for some Christmas music to dance to. Bryan rallied them near the tree, snagged a small, flat, square present and had them give it to me: James Taylor's At Christmas. Wondrous!!!

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The kids boogied and bopped to Winter Wonderland, Go Tell It On The Mountain, Santa Claus Is Coming To Town and Jingle Bells. Bry even brought me close - cheek to cheek - twirling me 'round the kitchen for Baby, It's Cold Outside. By the time The Christmas Song rang from the speakers, my crew was off to the basement to play with Transformers and video games.

Alone in the kitchen, I mixed artichoke dip for the evening's fare and listened to James. A lengthy intro to a carol I didn't immediately recognize floated into the room, casting a spell on me. Usually I can name almost any traditional tune in just a few notes. This one simultaneously eluded and captivated me. What song is this? I wondered. Somehow the music started soliciting tears. I couldn't tell if it was the crescendo of strings or the piano stylings of my fav, Dave Grusin, that did it. But, there I was with a cup of Parmesan cheese in my hand and tears in the corners of my eyes.

The intro reached a swollen up-beat and Jame's folky tenor broke in, divulging the carol, Some children see Him lily white/The baby Jesus born this night. Some children see Him lily white/With tresses soft and fair . . . tears cascaded soft and copiously down my face. Though the words were as familiar as an old friend, the traditional melody equally comforting, I had no idea why the song was reaching into my chest and wrapping its pentatonic fingers around my heart.

Then, the third verse came:

Some children see Him almond-eyed,
This Savior whom we kneel beside.
Some children see him almond-eyed,
With skin of golden hue.

Without thinking, I walked (dare I say floated) to our dining room window, and gazing at a snow-covered park, started to weep. Gratitude for three-year-old, beautiful, almond eyed, little Emily who is my daughter warmed me like a woolen sweater. Prayers for all the orphans we met in China when we adopted her flooded my soul. And, the faces of Emily's twelve sister-cousins who traveled home to America on the same plane she did flashed across my mind.

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The classic carol has always painted a lovely, prismatic picture for me: children around the globe seeing the Christ child with skin the same hue as theirs, with eyes the same shape as their own, and hair of their texture. When I listened to the lyric as a child, I loved imagining multicultural creches around the planet in Mexico, Africa, Israel, China, Australia, Europe, etc. They were all vibrant in color. Some were complete with palm trees and sand, others with mountains and snow. As I grew up, I loved the way the lyric pointed out our abilities to see based on our life experience, our world view. And, I found it inspiring that God, in whose image we are all created, is seen/revealed in children of great diversity and beauty.

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Even though the carol had touched me, intrigued me; it had existed apart from me like a planet on a parallel orbit. This year - standing in our kitchen holding the cup of grated cheese, listening to James Taylor's hauntingly clear tenor - that all changed. The hymn came near, orbiting my very heart. Why? I wondered, and the answer came clear as the carol: because of the diversity in my own family, because of my gorgeous, tenacious, luminescent Chinese daughter, Emily. She has changed me. I am no longer simply a woman with deep deciduous Midwestern roots. I'm, now, a mom who, touched by the grace of adoption, has fallen in love with China and a little girl who is fruit of that wondrous place.

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As Emily and I have walked through Advent together, lighting candles, reading stories, singing carols, preparing meals and gifts, touching familiar icons I've been mindful to celebrate instead of indoctrinate. I don't want to wash away any of Emily's rich heritage by force-feeding her a distinctly American, materialistic, western Jesus. I want her to experience divinity as a daughter of China, an American adoptee, a child of God. I want her to know a savior who is big, unconfined by boxes and myopic religious practices (though He was willing to take on infant form). I want Emily to see the baby in the manger with her own distinctly beautiful eyes. The funny thing is that, during this Advent - the third Emily and I have shared - for the first time, I'm the one who is seeing baby Jesus with almond eyes.

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Some Children See Him

Some children see Him lily white,

The baby Jesus born this night.

Some children see Him lily white,

With tresses soft and fair.

Some children see Him bronzed and brown,

The Lord of heav'n to earth come down.

Some children see Him bronzed and brown,

With dark and heavy hair.

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Some children see Him almond-eyed,

This Savior whom we kneel beside.

Some children see Him almond-eyed,

With skin of golden hue.

Some children see Him dark as they,

Sweet Mary's Son to whom we pray.

Some children see him dark as they,

And, ah! they love Him, too!

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The children in each different place

Will see the baby Jesus' face

Like theirs, but bright with heavenly grace,

And filled with holy light.

O lay aside each earthly thing

And with thy heart as offering,

Come worship now the infant King.

'Tis love that's born tonight!

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In my moment of dip-making-carol-enjoying epiphany, I realized that I've become one of the children looking at a new and distinctly personal creche scene. Thanks to Em, my blond-haired, blue-eyed baby Jesus has changed. This Christmas he has lovely lacquer hair and smiling almond eyes. He has been baptised by an eastern perspective, a perspective of pain and the beauty of redemption. From this distinct vantage, Christ looks more mysterious, more powerful, more unexpected, more divine. My made-over manger reveals a Miracle holding surprising, unique, vast, uncontainable deity. He's the long awaited One who reveals God's wonder around the globe; and in organic, daily, unimaginable ways to unsuspecting moms through the eyes of their children.

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After I wrote this piece my mom shared an inspiring, sagacious article by Ron Grossman titled, Christian Art is Chinese History. The newspaper clip weds China, Christ, art, history, and antiquity. It really affirmed some of my thoughts and feelings. Check it out at:

http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-scroll_02jan02,1,1219921.story?ctrack=2&cset=true

The Nativity of You

Bryan, my brother, Rob, my sister-in-love, Kristin, and I have a tradition. On the years that we're together for the holidays, we write poems for each other as Christmas presents. Tonight, after the kids tore into packages, played with new toys and were tucked in bed; the four of us sat by our fire sipping mulled cider and sharing our wordy gifts.

This is my offering to Kristin seven months pregnant with her first child, a baby boy:

The Nativity of Mary . . . The Nativity of You
for Kristin from Sally December 2007

Miraculous Sprout in the Root of Jesse, Line of David
A Magical Gift in a long genealogical line of Real, Wild, Crazy

Luminescent Gabriel pronounces the improbable splendor
Faint Line on plastic stick lauds your Miracle

Manger’s cattle trough waiting and ready, open and anticipatory
Chocolate brown and azure nursery welcomes, invites: Come!

Rough handed, warm-hearted, dream-believing Carpenter
Brilliant, book-reading, dream-believing Attorney, speechless

Earth-round belly leaping at the Baptizer in uterine encounter
Elbows, heels, bottom and toes touch Waiting Believers

She is forever enlarged, changed, redeemed
You are forever delivered, renewed, reborn

The Wordless One becomes the Word
Your Silent Seed burgeons crying, “Life!”

Natal Star of Bethlehem radiating, an intergalactic halo
Handmade birth announcements extend exuberant Nimbus of News

Stinky, swearing shepherds visit, she welcomes in postpartum fragility
Basketball Players, Anxious Aunties, Friends and Well-wishers travel to greet

Maji perilously plodding, stringing camels, bearing gold, frankincense, myrrh
Wise Women offer hand-knit booties, giraffe, onesies, sagacious maternal advice

Isreal’s Bethlehem ineluctably touched by God
The City of Angels irrevocably populated by Big Little Man

His name shall be Emmanuel
His name will be Durham

The quotidian reality of God conceived in you

LOVE

LOVE

A couple of weeks after writing this poem, I got an e-mail from Ron Grossman, a Chicago Tribune Staff Reporter. In the e-mail, he wrote: Those of us who are parents are blessed: the Talmud observes that little children are the messiahs of this world. I smiled a scimitar smile as I read his words; and considered the ways my children have been kings and spiritual leaders in my life. Their idealism, aggressive crusades, immutable hopeful fervors have forever changed my husband and me. I can't wait to see the messianic deliverance that comes to Rob and Kristin when they deliver Durham! Get ready, get ready!!!

GET READY . . . GET READY!!!

Yesterday my brother, Rob, and his pregnant wife, Kristin, flew in from LA. It was his birthday. Over Mom's succulent cassoulet, buttered noodles with parsley and sour cream, haricots verts with slivered almonds and brown sugared carrots we feasted, communed, celebrated! In cards and comments, we remembered my brother's birth, hoped our hearts had room to welcome the coming Christ; and anticipated the birth of Rob and Kristin's first son, due on February 14th. After homemade triple berry pie ala mode my clan offered a silly, Seussian, antiphonal poem in honor of their baby boy and the Love that will come.

Get Ready, Get Ready!
For Kristin & Rob
From Sal & The Miller Clan
Christmas 2007

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for the little BIG boy
Your son, your kin, your pride & joy

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for gross diaper rash
Laundry piled high & baby food mash

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for grog from being sleep deprived
And missing the peace of your long lost past lives

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for births and deaths of all kinds:
Of sports cars & self & sometimes your minds

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for Cheerios crushed in the kitchen
For freedom & autonomy that soon you’ll be missin’

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for whining & colic & croup
And days when all that matters is if Durham poops

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for talks that become one-word-exchanges
Due to interruptions from Baby who, your life, rearranges

Get ready! Get ready!

Get ready for Love that is long, deep & wide
That tickles your heart & lights up your insides

A Love you can’t conjure if even you try
‘cause it reaches the moon and dances ‘round the sky

Agape, Fileo & Eros can’t touch
This kind of a Love that can give you a rush

Only two kinds of people this deep Love can have
The people you’re becoming: A MOM & A DAD!

love
GET READY! GET READY!

Adventures in White Cotton:
Some Thought about the Ubiquitous Family Photo

Family portraits look demure, serene, peaceful, happy hanging above candlelit mantles. Guests examine and admire their picture perfect presentations of siblings, parents, grinning grandparents. Some even include a similarly smiling Golden Retriever, hound, poodle or other perfectly pedicured pup. Many family photos are flawlessly set by serene ponds, or on the antique chaise in a spotless, tasseled, luxurious living room. My favorites are the tangerine tinted shots taken at the precise moment sun kisses horizon on a beach decorated with ribbons of waves. Some portraits explode with color. Others capture a stark monochromatic moment: white on white or black on black.

When I see a family photo; I sometimes think, wouldn’t it be funny if the characters in the picture could talk?! Surely those immortalized in ink and framed in gilt would tell us about the gloves-off battle mom and dad had in the car going to the studio. The way the twins tousled in a WWF-style match in the photographer’s waiting room. How the baby cried for an hour before and an hour after the sitting. And, how dad sweat though his white cotton polo as he watched the cashier ring up the astronomical bill.

So far my brimming brood has entered into the tortuous ring of portraiture about four times. I’d be mortified if our images had mouths that could talk. The shot that’d scare me the most is the one taken for the back cover of one of my books. It was an outdoor pose. The kids – who at the time were 5, 4 and 1 – were bathed, perfectly quaffed, combed, and cajoled with candy, cookies, even Coke. (Big mistake!) The four of us were ready as roosters. Except for one tiny detail: my husband was late coming home from work.

Trouble was on the horizon as the sun began to rapidly sink. The little light we had left was getting swallowed in dusk. Mosquitoes and my temper started flitting in a maniacal buzz. My hair (and brain) began to frizz. My baby was freaking out. All I needed was a little cheese to go with her whine! My sons tousled in a wrestling match on the front lawn. So much for their shirts which, in a rare moment of insanity, I had taken the time to iron.

We waited. The baby whined. The boys wrestled. I checked my watch. We waited. The baby whined. The boys wrestled. I checked my watch . . . I expected my husband to show up in the nick of time – a large ‘S’ emblazoned on his chest – to save the photographic moment. He didn’t.

Ultimately, the shot got shot without my man. Though I considered homicide and divorce; he still lives on and we’re still hitched. I do regret my hubby’s absence on the book back. But, more than that I regret the way my expectations for our image to be ‘just so’ got the best of me. Every time I see that picture of the kids and me, what I remember most is the way my anger and impatience exploded in a narcissistic homage to image. When the book came out, and I saw our not-so-perfect-daddy-absent-picture I vowed to take family portraiture less seriously and embrace my living, wrestling, whining, tardy family members instead of a matte image of them.

Last week we went for our fifth family ‘Say-Cheese.’ I don’t know if the Jupiter and Mars were aligned; or if I had somehow finally learned to let-go of image and embrace my family. Whatever it was, the experience was not so bad. I affectionately and jokingly titled our evening (and the resultant souvenir) Adventures in White Cotton: A Family Portrait. Serendipitously, none of my children had chicken pocks, bed head or stains on their shirts. There were no duals, duke-outs, or deaths. I’m actually still smiling in disbelief. And, post proof of the rare photographic victory above.

I wonder if the picture turned out because I wasn’t uptight about it turning out. I wonder if everyone relaxed and smiled because I wasn’t being impatient and riddled with expectations. I hope that the next time my eyes are stinging from the flash bulb, I remember: not to take the picture so seriously, not to worry about wrinkly button downs and pizza stains. I hope I can be patient and kind to my husband who may have been late because of a day as cosmically difficult as mine. Most importantly of all, I hope I will smile and embrace my family in all of our typical, tender, tenacious imperfections.

WISE WOMEN TO BETHLEHEM?

A few Advents ago, I was reading one of the multitudinous magazines that ended its marketing journey in my mailbox. One glossy holly garlanded page advertised a plaque lauding something like this:

If God would’ve sent Wise Women to Bethlehem’s manger, Mary would’ve had a clean floor, wrapped gifts, chicken casseroles and breast-feeding advice.

I laughed out loud considering the helpless, hopeless awkwardness of ornately dressed, childfree Wise Men in the presence of a tiny, new, pink-fleshed, fragile, wailing, flailing babe. After judging the guys – from a station of feminine maternal superiority – I got a sober sense that we’re all 'Wise Men' in the presence of God Incarnate.

The humility and absurdity of deity embodied in a baby makes any wise (or not so wise) one stupor. It undoes, challenges, confounds, surprises, and blesses with the kind of mystery and grace that only shows up in unexpected places.










Christmastide Laudate

God is born as baby
today;
Mary gives birth in a
stable.

The Star illuminates
The Way;
And Wise Men are far
from able.

write write write 2004

THE ONLY KIND OF TOSS FOR ME: A WORD TOSS

Physical aptitude and coordination are not my fortes. It was usually my lot to play the archetypal role of Last One Picked in elementary school P.E. It didn’t help matters that I grew up clumsy and inept with a star basketball brother who ended up playing in the Big Ten. Even later in life, during my courtship with Bryan, true love didn’t refine my klutziness. Poor Bry championed numerous black eyes and bruises in failed attempts at playing catch and Frisbee with me.

The worst tale of athletic failure occurred in high school when I joined the track team. In blue and gold Lake Forest High School sweats, I hoped for at least a small piece of sportsman glory. Long distance running sounded romantic and exhilarating: wind in my hair, trees blurring by, talks with friends. Maybe I’ve discovered the one sport that doesn’t involve Olympic strains of athleticism, I remember thinking. On the first day of practice, the team took a long and arduous run along Lake Michigan. It was beautiful, oxygenating, invigorating! On the way back to Lake Forest High School, I got a stitch in my side, fell behind the pack; and got lost somewhere among ivy-held, three-story, lake-front mansions on a tangled Lake Forest residential road. That was the end of track and really the existence sports in my life.

Early in our friendship, though, my dear friend, Cheri – who has the stamina and speed of a mustang – imprudently asked me to join her on one of her runs. With renewed hope and excitement I accepted the offer. (She promised to navigate.) Adorned in Spandex and a flaming red headband, sneaker laces tied tight I could hear the theme song from Chariots of Fire blaring in my head. In the glory of the moment Eric Liddle, with his curly Scottish accen, seemed to whisper in my ear, “God made me and He made me fast! When I run . . . I feel His glory.” I thought about quoting the movie to Cher. A flash of athletic history caused me to reconsider. I kept my mouth shout, the line to myself.

Cheri stretched. I tried to mimic her moves, at least until she twisted her body into some kind of human pretzel. Standing up from the pretzel she flicked auburn hair into a ponytail and said, “Let’s go. You go ahead and set the pace, Sal.”

Two blocks later I was feeling it. We were in a rhythm! The air was fresh. The sun was bright. We were alive and rocketing down the road. This was the fastest pace I’d ever imagined running. With Cheri, I knew I could stretch myself, go for it, ‘just do it’! I tried to ignore the pounding words of my Nikes, You won’t have the stamina to make it to the next driveway, Girl. I kept going despite the way padded soles riveted worries up my legs and directly into my lungs. We were trucking along fast and free, young and strong!

“Is this your pace?” Cher asked looking at me with a crinkled brow.

I swung my arms with strength and voracity. Winded, but trying to speak through heavy breathing, I replied, “Yes . . . this is it! Are you . . . feeling . . . it?!”

No response.

Three miles or so later, as we 'raced' onto Cheri’s driveway, I wiped my brow, “Great run, Cher!”

She half-smiled, “Yeah . . . great run.”

“Why aren’t you sweating?” I asked, panting, dripping, bent over, hands on my knees.

For the next twenty years of friendship, Cheri never asked me to join her for another aerobic foray. Though I’d had a great time, I had a sneaking suspicion that even at top exertion, my strides were too small, my pace puny for Mustang Girl. Recently, safe in the cushion of our life-long friendship, Cher let me know that my suspicious were spot on. I was a torturously frustrating, dare I say an agonizing, ‘running’ partner.

These days, I take lots of slow, sallying (I guess, in light of all of this, the name Sally particularly fits me) walks on my own. Along the way, I pick up fall leaves, interesting rocks, goose feathers, even wayward turtles for my kids to keep as transient pets. The closest I come to sharing anything even sporty sounding with family or friends is engaging in a WORD TOSS. I like words. If I have a choice between throwing around words or a Frisbee, nine times out of ten words will win.

Following are some words Cheri and I tossed for a book we co-authored titled, Walk with Me: Two Friends on a Spiritual Journey Together

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FRIENDSHIP WORD TOSS

Cheri: Friendship.
Sally: Forgiveness.

Cheri: Love.
Sally: You’re stealing mine! Sharing.

Cheri: Hands.
Sally: Touch.

Cheri: Feeling.
Sally: Heart.

Cheri: Kindness.
Sally: Celebration.

Cheri: Festival.
Sally: Of Light.

Shared laughter!

Cheri: Incarnation.
Sally: God in us . . . to each other.

Cheri: Immanuel.
Sally: Gift.

Cheri: Furoshiki.
Sally: Present . . . not present as in gift, present with.

Cheri: And I say present, gift.
Sally: Birthdays.

Cheri: Traditions.
Sally: Celebrating our children.

Cheri: Ben.
Sally: Jen.

Cheri: A. D.
Sally: Ryker.

Cheri: Toddler
Sally: Learning to walk.

Cheri: Baby.
Sally: Birthing.

Cheri: O.K., I think we’re done.
Sally: Oh no! We’re just beginning!

http://www.millermueller.blogspot.com/

A Few Favorite Friendship Quotes

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Strangers are just friends waiting to happen.

-Unknown

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It is one of the blessings of old friends that

you can afford to be stupid with them.

-Ralph Waldo Emmerson

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Good communication is as stimulating as black coffee,

and just as hard to sleep after.

-Anne Morrow Lindbergh

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A friend knows the song in my heart

and sings it to me when my memory fails.

-Donna Roberts

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The best way to mend a broken heart

is time with girlfriends.

-Gwyneth Paltrow

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There is magic in long-distance friendships.

They let you relate to other human beings in a way that goes beyond

being physically together and is often more profound.

-Diana Cortes

What's the Point of all this Girl Talk?
(An Excerpt from Girl Talk . . . God Talk: What Your Friends Can Teach You About Prayer)

My friends give me gifts on my birthdays. They tell me when a pair of jeans makes my butt look as big as the whale that swallowed Jonah. I laugh hysterically because of their off-center jokes. They know everything about me, from my favorite flavor of ice cream (chocolate peanut butter) to the deepest dreams and desires of my heart. And they cry when I cry. Knowing how my girlfriends relate to me helps open my heart to an intimate, playful, ongoing interaction with God.

Because of my friends, I catch fresh glimpses of Him. God calls me on the phone to have a simple chat. He takes a walk with me. He sits next to me on the couch. He does a dance of joy, or whispers in my ear. Maybe these scenarios sound strange or irreverent to you. Maybe it seems weird comparing a relationship with God to the relationships between giggle, imperfect, and sometimes catty girlfriends. But Jesus was best friends with a crew of stinky fishermen who probably used language that'd make Eddie Murphy look like the pope. Jesus knows what it feels like to wear skin, be betrayed by a friend, walk on dusty streets, and get sand between his toes. He's like us, and we're like Him. We're created 'in His image.' Because of this, we can relate to God through each other.

In fact, people are our best bet at knowing God. The unthinkable fact that the God of the universe somehow fit into a manger is reason enough to believe that we can find Christ in our friends. Our close girlfriends show us many of the ways we can be in a prayerful relationship with Jesus. They help us see who God really is: Initiator, Savior, Host, Playmate, Redeemer, Artist, and Friend.

friend

friend

friend

The Durand Methodist Church, featuring facilitator Mershon Niesner, is hosting a Girl Talk . . . God Talk book study on Tuesday mornings, January 8th – February 12th. Interested in joining the conversation?

Contact:
The Durand United Methodist Church
103 E. Main Street / P.O. Box 168
Durand, IL 61024

durandUMC@Stateline-isp.com

Friendship is God’s greatest gift to the church – Mike Mason