simple gifts

What do you do well? A man named James Bridges sings well. In fact, he sings one song particularly well, and he sings it every day, multiple times a day. He doesn’t sing this song on a stage in front of a cheering crowd; he sings it over the telephone to an appreciative audience of one. The song is “Happy Birthday.”

I learned about Mr. Bridges from an interview that aired earlier this week on NewsChannel5, Nashville’s CBS affiliate. Through the years, this Cadiz, Kentucky, resident has compiled a list of people whom he phones on their birthdates to serenade them with the traditional birthday song. He started this ministry of song 15 years ago in response to requests from friends at church, and today there are 2,945 names on his calling list. Each morning he cracks opens the notebook that holds all these names and begins dialing and singing. He hopes to have 3,000 names on his list by the end of the year.

What do you do well? I’ll bet you have a talent, a hobby, or an ability that you could use to brighten someone else’s day. Mr. Bridges’ story reminded me that I should never underestimate the power of a seemingly simple act of encouragement.

“And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him” (Colossians 3:17).

I have a dream

In June when my family visited Washington, D.C., we made the rounds of the monuments and memorials that are situated along the National Mall. After ascending the lower granite steps and then the upper marble steps to reach the pink marble floor of the chamber of the Lincoln Memorial, I turned around to take in President Lincoln's view. As I looked out toward the Reflecting Pool, the World War II Memorial, the Washington Monument, and the Capitol, I couldn't help but recall what it would have been like to have been in this place on the day when Martin Luther King, Jr., made his famous "I Have a Dream" speech. Alas, I missed that event because I had not yet been born, but if I had a time machine, that is undoubtedly one point in history that I would visit.

Today marks the 45th anniversary of that historic event. As a nation we have come a distance during the past four and a half decades in the quest to break down racial barriers - as evidenced by the fact that Barack Obama will be making his acceptance speech at Invesco Field in Denver tonight to accept his party's nomination for the presidency of the United States. But the dream of racial equality in America has clearly not yet been fully realized. 

And so I offer Dr. King's words for consideration once again: "We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children. . . . And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.' I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today!"

a woman's right to vote

Today America celebrates the 88th anniversary of the ratification of the 19th Amendment, which gave women the right to vote. It is difficult for me fathom that when my grandmother was born in 1918, women were still being denied this essential right in America. My home state of Tennessee played a decisive role in this 72-year political campaign, which began at the first Women's Rights Convention at the Wesleyan Chapel in Seneca Falls, New York. On this day 88 years ago, the Tennessee General Assembly became the 36th state to ratify the Woman Suffrage Amendment, thus securing the three-fourths majority required to amend the U.S. Constitution.

I vote every time I have the opportunity to do so - I can't recall an election that I have failed to vote in. I simply don't understand Americans who fail to exercise their right to vote - especially those who complain vociferously about the government. My son has been looking forward to voting since he was very young, and he is thrilled that he will turn 18 just two weeks before this year's presidential election, thus allowing him to at last participate in this nation's electoral process. 

Several years ago my family visited the Women's Rights National Historic Park in Seneca Falls. If you're ever in the area, I would highly recommend a visit to this jewel of a park. The most moving part of our visit for me was our stop at the Waterwall, a 100-foot bluestone wall on which is inscribed the text of the Declaration of Sentiments, along with the names of the 68 women and 32 men who signed it on July 20, 1848. In honor of those courageous 100 Americans, here is an excerpt from that historic document:

"Now, in view of this entire disfranchisement of one-half the people of this country, their social and religious degradation, in view of the unjust laws above mentioned, and because women do feel themselves aggrieved, oppressed, and fraudulently deprived of their most sacred rights, we insist that they have immediate admission to all the rights and privileges which belong to them as citizens of these United States. In entering upon the great work before us, we anticipate no small amount of misconception, misrepresentation, and ridicule; but we shall use every instrumentality within our power to effect our object. We shall employ agents, circulate tracts, petition the State and national Legislatures, and endeavor to enlist the pulpit and the press in our behalf. We hope this Convention will be followed by a series of Conventions, embracing every part of the country. Firmly relying upon the final triumph of the Right and the True, we do this day affix our signatures to this declaration."

When I enter the voting booth on November 4, I will silently thank God for Lucretia Mott and Elizabeth Cady Stanton and the others who battled so courageously to secure this right for me. The Right and True triumphed indeed!

pressure is a privilege

I have added a new book to my reading list - Pressure is a Privilege: Lessons I've Learned from Life and the Battle of the Sexes by Billie Jean King. When I heard the tennis legend interviewed this morning by Renee Montagne on NPR, I was immediately transported back to the night of September 20, 1973, when I was seated on the couch in the den in my family's house on Hollywood Drive in Jackson, Tennessee. I was only a fourth grader, but I remember watching King's match with Bobby Riggs in the Houston Astrodome - the "Battle of the Sexes" - with great interest and rooting hard for her because it seemed liked my personal reputation was at stake.

It was fascinating to hear King speak today about her strategy for the match, but the most striking portion of the interview was when she reflected on the impact her victory over Riggs had on tennis - and not just women's tennis. "It's funny how when a woman does something, they only think it affects half the population. People come up to me and say, 'Thanks for what you did for women's tennis' all the time, and I know they'd never say that to a guy. If they walked up to a male, they would just say, 'Thanks for what you did for tennis.' It's interesting. I think people perceive women that way all the time, and that's not good. Because if you affect one human being, I think it's a domino effect. It changes the puzzle; it changes the framing - everything."

May the dominos continue to fall.

women in the pulpit

When I registered for classes for my second semester at Beeson Divinity School in the fall of 2000, I took a course taught by Dr. Robert Smith, Jr., called "The History of Women in Preaching." Having spent a lifetime worshipping in Southern Baptist churches, I honestly did not realize that there was a history of women in preaching. The objective of the course was to help students "understand the background, rationale, and creative aspect of the preaching experience of women within the spectrum of the American tradition." (Yes, I still have that syllabus in my files.) There were eight women in the seminar, which met on Tuesday evenings from 4:30-7:00 p.m. - nine if you count Dr. Smith, whom we declared an honorary woman.

The first time we convened, we each drew the named of a woman preacher out of a fishbowl. (Dr. Smith was famous for using that object to make assignments.) We were then required to write a write a reflection paper and lead a homiletical teaching clinic on our assigned preacher. In this manner, we learned about Edwina Hunter, Ella P. Mitchell, Barbara Brown Taylor, Vashti McKenzie, Elizabeth Achtemier, Lucy Lind Hogan, Christine Smith, Cheryl Sanders, and Carol Noren. Of course, since this was a preaching class, we also each had to preach, and it was in this setting that I preached my first sermon on November 2, 2000. I chose to preach about Dorcas, whose story is recorded in Acts 9:36-42.

I cannot begin to explain how I felt each time I heard one of my seminary sisters proclaim the gospel or listened to one of the sermons preached by the luminary female homileticians we studied. I felt cheated that I had lacked female role models in the pulpit, but I also felt encouraged - and challenged - as I watched women using their God-given gifts to share His Word. Preaching had never seemed within the realm of possibility for me until I took that course.

I felt the same way this morning, when a woman preached in the pulpit of my church - only the second time in the 14 years that I have been a member there that I have heard a woman preach on a Sunday morning. As I listened to Ruth Graham's sermon, I prayed that the girls in the congregation would recognize that God might call them to preach one day. Maybe one day seminary students will study one of them in a history of women in preaching class. 

for everything there is a season

Tomorrow marks the last day that the class of 2009 will be in the junior Sunday School department at my church. I have been privileged to teach this group of girls for the past two years on Sunday mornings, and I am looking forward to promoting with them to the senior department after our Student Ministry's Labor Day Retreat. 

But at the moment, I am reflecting on the past year and thinking about the spiritual growth that I have witnessed in the lives of these girls and guys during their junior year. These students have demonstrated that they are learning to make wise choices that honor God in every area of their lives - choices about their attitudes, their words, and their actions - and they are learning from their mistakes. They are also learning that sometimes the most difficult choices are not between good and bad but between better and best. 

Three of these outstanding students made difficult decisions at the end of their junior year to give up extracurricular activities that they had thoroughly enjoyed and excelled in so that they could free up time to be even more involved in the Student Ministry during their senior year. There was nothing inherently wrong with any of these activities, but they were all very time-consuming and had caused these students to miss out on events at church. These students are committed to being leaders within the youth group and realize that you can't lead well if you're not there. I have no doubt that they will not regret their decisions, and our youth group will be stronger because of their commitment to lead well.

"For everything there is a season," the author of Ecclesiastes wrote, "a time for every activity under heaven." This is the seniors' season to lead.

August 22, 1964

On a Saturday morning 44 years ago today, a 6-pound, 10-ounce, 19-inch long baby girl was born at 7:07 a.m. at Jackson-Madison County General Hospital in Jackson, Tennessee. Her mother had picked out the name Tambi for her first daughter eight or nine years earlier when she saw it among the credits for a TV show. Her father chose her middle name, Jennifer, from a list of names for children. Upon her birth, her mother's first words were "You're a pretty little doll!" Her father's first words were, "You're not wrinkled." 

Lyndon Baines Johnson was the president of the United States, and the Democrats were seeking a way to avoid a party split of civil rights during the election year. The Beatles were the rage, "Hello Dolly" was a hit song, and the most popular dance was the Watusi. Notable fashions included boots, textured stockings, reptile leather shoes, topless swimsuits, and dresses. 

All of the above information was recorded in my mother's impeccable penmanship in my baby book - "Baby's Milestones: Birth to Seven Years." Thanks, Mom, for keeping such a meticulous record of my early years!

the gift of presence

At every writers' conference I have attended, successful authors have noted the connection between being an avid reader and becoming an accomplished writer, so I have recently recommitted myself to reading regularly and ravenously. My goal is to read a book a week, and so far I'm on track. I'm currently reading two books - The Soloist by Steve Lopez and Here If You Need Me by Kate Braestrup. 

I first learned about The Soloist: A Lost Dream, and Unlikely Friendship, and the Redemptive Power of Music in April when I heard Dave Davies's interview with Lopez on NPR's Fresh Air. This account of an L.A. Times columnist's relationship a homeless violinist strikes an emotional chord in the reader and is both hopeful and haunting. 

My mother gave me Braestrup's book when I stopped by her house yesterday to wish her and my dad a happy 47th anniversary. I was not familiar with this book, which was released last year, but I subsequently learned that it had received the Barnes & Noble Discover Award for best nonfiction book of the year. Braestrup is a self-described "plucky widow" who decided to enroll in Bangor Theological Seminary after her husband - a Maine state trooper - died in the line of duty in an accident. This mother of four eventually became one of the first chaplains appointed to serve the Maine Warden Service, which is a steward of Maine's fish and wildlife resources.

I have been struck by two stories in particular as I'm progressing through Braestrup's book. In one passage, after a warden has completed the sad duty of informing a woman that her husband's body has been recovered, he remarks to the chaplain, "It's like standing right on the hinge of someone's life. You know? Right there on the hinge, while the whole world swings around, and that widow, or that mother or dad's life is suddenly different. Permanently different. I've been a game warden for thirty-two years. I can't think how many people I've had to tell about a death, how many people have that memory of me standing there, saying those words. It's really something, to be on the hinge of so many stories." As I read those words, I thought about several friends who are chaplains - individuals who have been the hinges of so many stories themselves. 

The other story that has jumped out at me is Braestrup's description of a visit from a neighbor less than an hour after her own hinge moment, when she was just beginning to realize that the narrative of her life had been irrevocably altered. An elderly woman appeared on her doorstep, eyes brimming with tears, clutching a pan of freshly baked brownies. Braestrup memorably described this food offering as the "leading edge of a wave that did not recede for many months." At the moment, Braestrup had no idea how her family and friends would rally around her and her children in the days and months to come, comforting them with tangible acts of service that gave them the strength to soldier on. At that moment, though, Braestrup recalls, "All I knew was that my neighbor was standing on the front stoop with her brownies and her tears: she was the Good News."

Both of these books remind me of the importance of presence. Sometimes simply being with someone and acknowledging their pain is the greatest gift you can offer.

find the good and praise it

"What we see usually depends on what we look for." That is the message that is posted on the sign in front of the Presbyterian church around the corner from my house. I read the sign with its freshly posted message as I was driving home from my morning walk at Radnor Lake, and for the second time in an hour my thoughts turned to Alex Haley.

I was fortunate to have Alex Haley as my commencement speaker when I graduated from the University of Tennessee at Knoxville in the spring of 1985, and I was doubly blessed when I was able to eat lunch with him after the graduation ceremony. Because my father had been serving as an ex-officio trustee for the university, we were among a select group of people who were invited to attend a luncheon at which Mr. Haley was the guest of honor. (As I recall, university officials informed Mr. Haley that they were giving him a pair of geese in appreciation for his commencement address. Fortunately, they did not actually present him with the geese at the luncheon.) My father and I were assigned to sit at the same table as Mr. Haley. I would like to be able to pass on some wise words that this consummate storyteller imparted during that luncheon, but I don't remember him saying much at all. That's because my father spent most of the meal telling Mr. Haley stories. 

I thought about Alex Haley the first time this morning as I was walking down Otter Creek Road along the shore of Radnor Lake and reflecting on Philippians 4:8 - "Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable - if anything is excellent or praiseworthy - think about such things." Because I am a detail-oriented person, I tend to focus on what's wrong in a given situation. I want to things to be done right, and done right the first time. If a mistake is made, I want it to be fixed without delay. This preoccupation with finding what's wrong to make things right means I tend to dwell on the negatives, so I have to discipline myself to look for the positives - the things that are true, and noble and right. 

Which leads me to Alex Haley. Mr. Haley's personal motto was "find the good and praise it." Wise advice. Biblical advice. Convicting advice. 

cache-tastic

Yesterday when my son got home from school, he reported that he had chosen not to go to the cafeteria during his lunch break but had instead remained in his AP Calculus class so that he and his friend could continue working on breaking a geocache code. When they showed their teacher the elaborate math problem they were working on for fun, he remarked, “You two really are the kings of the nerds.” The guys took that as a compliment.

My family took our first stab at geocaching on a vacation out west in 2007. During that 13-day journey we made the rounds of seven national parks in Utah and Colorado – Zion, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Arches, Canyonlands, Mesa Verde, and Great Sand Dunes. While we were in the Moab area, we made the drive out to Dead Horse Point State Park, whose most prominent feature is a natural overlook from which visitors have a stunning view of the Colorado River as it winds between the canyon walls 2,000 feet below.

As we entered the park, among the materials that the ranger handed to us was a special promotional packet about geocaching in Utah’s state parks. Geocaching is a high-tech treasure hunt in which participants use GPS devices to find hidden containers. According to geocaching.com, there are currently 636,975 active geocaches around the world. We had a handheld GPS with us on the trip, so when we discovered that there was a cache hidden near the visitor center at Dead Horse Point, we decided to try our hand at the game. That first geocache proved to be fairly easy to locate – in fact, we actually guessed the location based on the clue and didn’t really need the GPS coordinates – but it was a positive first experience.

A month later when we were in Madison, Wisconsin, visiting our niece and her husband, we tried to locate three caches near their home – we found only one out of three – but by then we were hooked. This year Chaney and I gave Paul a new and improved handheld GPS for Father’s Day, which has definitely helped them bolster their geocaching stats. Chaney and three of his friends have been working both independently and corporately to locate caches, and Paul and Chaney have hidden some caches of their own. Chaney is even blogging about his geocaching exploits, so check out "Cache-tastic: a chronicle of Stoogeteer geocaching."

mother and son

Did you catch the interview that Bob Costas did with Michael Phelps and his mother, Debbie, that aired on Sunday? Having observed Michael intently scan the crowd in order to locate his mother each time he prepared to mount the podium to receive yet another gold medal, it was obvious to me that the two had a deep connection, and the interview shed even more light on this wonderful parent-child relationship.

When Debbie returns to Baltimore from Beijing this week, she will immediately report for duty at Windsor Mills Middle School outside Baltimore, where she serves as principal. During the interview, Michael spoke with pride about his mother's dedication to her students and her incredible work ethic, and he talked about how much he had learned from her example. You expect a mother to praise her child effusively, but it was refreshing to hear a child - an Olympic champion, nonetheless - to publicly offer accolades for his mother. They clearly have a mutual admiration society, with each one drawing strength and inspiration from the other.

When the interview was over, I declared that it was my second favorite thing about the Olympics thus far, ranking just behind the Opening Ceremony. My son was incredulous. How could I like this interview more than one of the actual events - perhaps one of Michael's own gold medal-winning performances? I told him that when I watch the Olympics, I think not only about the sacrifices that the athletes have made but also about the sacrifices that their parents made - sacrifices of time, money, and energy - that enabled these athletes to have the opportunity to appear on the global stage. 

My son was nonplussed. That's okay. One day when he becomes a parent, he will understand. In the meantime, I'll keep rooting for Debbie Phelps, who has already helped her own three children successfully navigate the journey from childhood to young adulthood and continues to influence the lives of the students at Windsor Mills Middle School. She is my kind of hero.

born a Baptist

I was born a Baptist. When my parents took me home from the Jackson-Madison County General Hospital on August 26, 1964, four days after my birth, our destination was Ellis Hall - a men's dormitory on the campus of Union University. Founded in 1823, this four-year liberal arts-based university in Jackson, Tennessee, is the oldest institution affiliated with the Southern Baptist Convention. Both of my parents are Union grads, and when I was born they were serving as dorm parents at Ellis Hall. 

During his years at Union, Dad taught in the classroom and worked in the administration, serving as dean of students and later vice president. After running an unsuccessful campaign for Tennessee's 7th Congressional District in 1974, Dad accepted the position of the Executive Director of the Tennessee Higher Education Commission, where he served for the next decade. Dad always said that Baptist politics were worse than state politics. As I have gotten older, I have sadly come to understand the wisdom of his words. 

When I was an infant, my parents began taking me to First Baptist Church in Jackson, which had been the site of their wedding on August 20, 1961. Their church home became my own. When I was nine years old, I walked down the aisle of that church during a revival and publicly professed my faith in Jesus Christ as my Savior and became an official member of that congregation. During subsequent years, I have been a member of four other Southern Baptist congregations - three in Tennessee and one in Maryland.

Through the years, I have become increasingly reluctant to identify myself as a Baptist. The public perception of Baptists is not positive, due in large part to the divisive rhetoric of the leaders of the Southern Baptist Convention. I am a member of a Southern Baptist congregation, but I do not wish to identify myself as a Southern Baptist. When I'm filling out a form that asks me to identify my religious affiliation, as I mark the "Baptist" box I always want to write a note out to the side that reads "But I'm not that kind of Baptist!" 

Thankfully, during the past year I believe I am reclaiming my Baptist heritage as I have connected with an ever-increasing circle of like-minded Baptists. The process began in earnest when I began working part-time as a Leadership Development Specialist for the Tennessee Cooperative Baptist Fellowship last September. What a joy it has been to work with Baptists who want to cooperate with other believers to advance the kingdom of God! Another significant milestone in this heritage reclamation journey was the Celebration of a New Baptist Covenant, which was held January 30-February 1, 2008, in Atlanta. After spending three days with 15,000 other Baptists who represented 30 Baptist conventions and organizations, I departed Atlanta with a rekindled sense of hope for the future of Baptists. (Leaders of the Southern Baptist Convention officially declined to participate in the Celebration, but there sure were a lot of Southern Baptists in the assembled crowd!) Attending the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship General Assembly in Memphis in June provide me with yet another opportunity to fellowship with like-minded Baptists, and I thoroughly enjoyed being able to participate in the 25th anniversary celebration of Baptist Women in Ministry.

I am a Baptist - a Baptist who believes in soul freedom, Bible freedom, church freedom, and religious freedom. I'm hopeful that one day I will be able to say "I am a Baptist" and not only will I not wince, but no one else will either.

my kind of Baptists

I have been in meetings in Murfreesboro during the past two days associated with the Tennessee Cooperative Baptist Fellowship - the staff meeting on Friday and the Coordinating Council meeting on Saturday. I began working part-time for TCBF last September as a Leadership Development Specialist, and I have been blessed beyond measure to be able to connect with folks who share my commitment to historic Baptist beliefs. Tomorrow I will expound about my journey as a Baptist, but for now, I'm simply going to include the preamble from TCBF's constitution to help explain who I am as a Baptist:

As free and faithful Baptist who are followers of Jesus Christ, we accept His command to take God's message of love and forgiveness to people everywhere.

We affirm the priesthood of each believer, recognizing that each has direct access to God through Jesus Christ, and is able to know and do the will of God. We recognize that each believer, without the aid of any creed, has the privilege and responsibility of understanding and applying the teachings of scripture as led by the Spirit.

We believe in the local church, recognizing it as a voluntary association of baptized believers, and we respect the autonomy of the local congregation. We stand for religious liberty and hold firm the principle of separation of church and state. As freedom loving people, we believe in equality among believers, all of whom are free to exercise the gifts of the Spirit. Our belief in free speech, free press, and freedom of the soul is unwavering. These freedoms and distinctives are essential to our identity as a people of God.

We are cooperative by nature, recognizing the blessings of shared mission and ministry. It is our desire that this fellowship be inclusive, for our Baptist heritage has taught us that there is strength in diversity. Realizing that we are only a small part of God's family, it is our desire to cooperative with each other and other Christians as we seek to minister in God's name.

As a fellowship, we are not in competition with any church or convention. Our only desire is to be faithful to the One who has called us, and whose love empowers us. Understanding and doing God's will is our constant objective.

Amen!

a visit from old friends

Late yesterday afternoon we got a call from some old friends who are missionaries in Germany who were in town and wanted to drop by for a visit. We first met David and Laura two decades ago when he was serving as the youth minister in our church. Paul and I taught their oldest daughter, who just graduated from Boston University, in a 3-year-old Sunday School class, and I taught their second daughter, who is about to begin her senior year at Colorado College, in Mother's Day Out. We recalled last night with amazement how David and Laura had entrusted us with their preschoolers while they travelled out of the country for several days back in 1989. What were they thinking? Somehow their daughters survived in spite of our inexperience.

When David and Laura left Tennessee in 1990 to serve as missionaries in Dundee, Scotland, we promised them (like many other folks) that we would visit them. In the summer of 1991, Paul and I made good on that promise, even though it meant leaving our 9-month-old son with my parents while we traveled. In fall of that same year, I returned to the area as a member of a mission team that led holiday clubs for children (a version of Vacation Bible School) and special events for teenagers. Then in the summer of 1997, Paul, Chaney, and I went on a mission trip to Nantwich, England, where we helped lead a Vacation Bible School for the children of missionaries from England, Scotland, and Wales who were attending their annual regional mission meeting. Our friends have spent their second half of their missionary careers in Germany, and I regret that we have yet to make good on our promise to visit them there. God willing, we will get there - hopefully sooner rather than later.

I have learned a lot of lessons from David and Laura through the years, but I have particularly been impressed with their parenting skills and their hospitality. They have raised four incredible daughters who are independent, missions-minded, and mature beyond their years. When we visited in their home in Scotland, I admired how Laura managed to juggle so many responsibilities as a mom and a missionary yet always maintained a great sense of humor. She had an open door policy in her home and was always willing to put another plate on the table. I don't have the innate gift of hospitality that Laura possesses, but I have tried to imitate her example. I am grateful that God has put people like David and Laura in my life through the years who have modeled what it means to be good stewards of all God has given us - including spiritual gifts and material resources.

the world of oncology

Yesterday my mother had her fifth chemotherapy treatment at Tennessee Oncology. Since Mom was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer in April, the extended Brown family has been learning to navigate a world colored by cancer. My mother is handling the stresses associated with cancer admirably, drawing on the coping skills she honed raising four children (who were born within a 4 1/2 year span) and teaching elementary school students for three decades. 

The first half of the summer was excruciating difficult for Mom - and the rest of the family - as she dealt with debilitating side effects from an experimental drug, including painful mouth sores that made it difficult for her to eat and drink, leading to excessive weight loss, dehydration, and malnourishment. Last month her oncologist pulled her off the drug, and the symptoms quickly subsided. Yesterday, however, the oncologist decided to give this drug another shot, albeit at a lower dose. He is optimistic that the lower dosage will minimize the side effects. I hope he's right.

On the first day that my family met with the oncologist, we also met the woman who is in charge of the clinical trials. As I observed her interact with my mom, I noted that she did a remarkable job of putting my mom at ease, despite the difficult circumstances. She answered her questions frankly and sensitively, and repeatedly encouraged her to be hopeful. By the end of the consultation, I understood why she had connected with my mom so easily - she is a cancer survivor. 

As I reflected on this interaction, I recalled Henri Nouwen's classic work The Wounded Healer, in which he makes the case that we heal from our own wounds. Nouwen's words had a profound impact on me when I first read it fifteen years ago, and I realize that I need to reread it soon. I have a hunch that God has a timely message for me among Nouwen's words.

Breaking the cycle

This morning I heard a story by Steve Inskeep on NPR about the Ohio Reformatory for Women, which is one of only a handful of U.S. prisons that offers an in-house nursery. This option is available only for non-violent offenders serving short sentences who are pregnant when they arrive at the facility or who have infants. The twin goals of the program are to reduce recidivism and prevent the children of these inmates from becoming offenders themselves. I listened to this story with interest, because I have firsthand experience working with female ex-offenders and know all too well how the odds are stacked against their children.

In the spring of 2002 when I was a a student at Beeson Divinity School, I took a class on Social Justice Ethics taught by Dr. Wilton Bunch. One of the passages we focused on during the semester was Luke 4:18-19, in which Jesus declared, "The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor." The phrase "proclaim freedom for the prisoners" jumped out at me as I contemplated the passage in the days to come, and within a few months I discovered that God had used this class to prepare me to be a part of a group of "wild, praying women" who would launch a transitional housing ministry serving female ex-offenders called The Next Door.

During the past few years, I have had the privilege of returning to Beeson each semester to speak to Dr. Bunch's ethics classes about restorative justice. During my presentation, I make the case that Christ-followers have a moral obligation to address this issue, and I share the story of the creation of The Next Door as an example of one congregation's effort to be a part of the solution. I share some statistics to help the students understand the scope of the problem:

- More than one in 100 American adults are in jail or prison - an all-time high.

- The national prison population has tripled since 1987.

- With more than 2.3 million people behind bars at the start of 2008, the U.S. leads the world in the both the number and percentage of residents it incarcerates. China is second with 1.5 million people incarcerated and Russia is third with 890,000. 

- 650,000 people are released from prison each year.

- Half of all released inmates return to jail or prison within three years.

- Parole violators now constitute 34% of all admissions.

- 1.5 million American children have a parent in prison.

Nonviolent drug offenses are the primary reason for the high rates of female incarceration, and the majority of these women have children. This is certainly true among the residents at The Next Door. As I worked with the residents on a weekly basis for three years, I learned that the vast majority of them had experienced some form of abuse in the past - physical, mental, or sexual. Most of the residents had a dual diagnosis - a substance abuse issue and a mental health issue. Many of them had family members who were incarcerated - mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, and children. Their stories were harrowing and heartbreaking. The good news is that many of these women found hope at The Next Door. The Tennessee Department of Corrections estimates that 60% of women released from prison in Tennessee will end up back behind bars within a year, but the rate of recidivism for women who complete The Next Door's 6-month program is less than 20%.

Back to the NPR story: Is it optimal for an infant to spend the first few months of life behind bars? Of course not. But by allowing the mother and child to bond during that critical period of childhood development and by equipping these young mothers with parenting skills, perhaps two lives will be transformed and two prison beds will be empty in the future.

Radnor Lake

"As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?" (Psalm 42:1-2) 

These are the words that sprang to my mind this morning as I walked along the shore of Radnor Lake and spotted a doe and her fawn drinking from an adjacent pond. Radnor Lake is one of Tennessee's state natural areas, a 1,200-acre jewel of a park located just eight miles from downtown Nashville. I began walking regularly at Radnor Lake when Chaney started high school, since John Overton High School is located just a couple of miles from the park's east parking lot and it was very convenient for me to drop him off at school and then head out for my morning hike. Visitors to Radnor Lake can walk on Otter Creek Road along the southern shore of the 85-acre lake or venture out onto one of the four major trails: Lake, South Lake, South Cove, and Ganier Ridge.

One year I kept a small journal in my car in which I recorded the variety of wildlife I spotted each day during my hike, including: whitetailed deer, barred owls, river otters, snakes, beavers, rabbits, frogs, muskrats, Canada geese, great blue herons, red-tailed hawks, and a variety of ducks. As I recall, on one winter day I spotted 70+ whitetailed deer, a personal best. My son claims that there are really only ten deer in the park which continually hightail it through the woods and position themselves so that I will spot (and count) them over and over again. He clearly grew weary that year of my daily animal spotting reports.

Hiking at Radnor Lake is good for my body, mind, and soul. This is a sacred place for me, a place where I go to meet God. This park is a sanctuary where I admire the Creator's handiwork and consider my place in His creation. This is also a place of prayer for me. I have uttered countless prayers during the past few years as I have traversed these trails - including regular prayers for the high school students I teach at church. When this morning's sighting of the doe and her fawn brought the psalmist's words to mind, I prayed that these high school seniors would have a thirst for the living God, an unquenchable desire to know God more intimately. And that is my prayer for myself, as well.

In the beginning

Today is a day of firsts - my son's first day of his senior year of high school and my first day to blog. As Chaney gets back into the daily routine of school, I am attempting to get back into the groove of having a somewhat regular schedule myself. After hearing Barbara Brown Taylor speak about writing at the Festival of Homiletics in Minneapolis in May, I was convicted (once again) that I need to discipline myself to write every day - and not just when I have deadlines. 

I had thought that perhaps today would be bittersweet for me as my one and only child began the homestretch of his high school education, but, surprisingly, I was excited for him. It dawned on me this morning that even if he were packing boxes for college this week instead of loading a backpack for a day of high school, I would feel confident that he was ready for the challenge. Obviously, I am grateful that I still have another year with him at home before he heads to the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, but he is a very mature young man, and I couldn't be prouder of him.

This morning, The Tennessean featured a front page story titled "Church for sale: no reasonable offer refused." The article discussed what happens to church buildings in Nashville after congregations decide to relocate to the suburbs or are disbanded. The reporter noted that former church structures in Nashville have been "recycled" in a range of ways, including: a strip club, a bar, a pawnshop, and law offices. I immediately recalled a mission trip that my family took to England in 1997, during which we spotted several former church buildings that were being used as bars. My thoughts also turned to another lecture I heard at the Festival of Homiletics - this one by Michael Slaughter.

Mike Slaughter is "the chief dreamer and lead pastor" of Ginghamsburg Church in Tipp City, Ohio (www.mikeslaughter.com). God is using this United Methodist congregation, which was founded in 1863, to radically change lives around the world. In additional to sponsoring a variety of ministries that serve "the least of these" in their local community, in 2005 the church initiated The Sudan Project (http://ginghamsburg.org/sudan). In 36 months the church has provided nearly $3 million for the Darfur relief effort. While I was inspired by this congregation's global vision and generosity, I was also intrigued by another facet of their ministry - an intentional effort to reclaim abandoned church buildings in their area and plant new congregations. Perhaps the most fascinating part of this process is the way the church develops leaders for these new churches: Ginghamsburg sends a core group of laypeople to "seed" the new congregation, and after a year one of those individuals becomes the pastor. Interesting concept. What congregation is willing to do something like this in Nashville?

Yesterday I do believe that I watched more consecutive hours of television than ever before. I have been captivated by these Olympic Games since the mind-boggling Opening Ceremony, and I just couldn't turn the TV off last night until the broadcast ended. Clearly, the U.S. team's breathtaking, gold medal-winning, come-from-behind finish in the 4x100 swimming relay more than compensated for my lost hour of sleep. My favorite relay team member is Cullen Jones, a Bronx-born 24-year-old. Jones is only the third African-American in history to qualify for the U.S. Olympic Swim Team. When Jones was 5 years old, he nearly drowned on a visit to a waterpark. When he capsized on his inner tube at the bottom of a water slide, he panicked. His father jumped in and pulled him out, and a lifeguard performed CPR on the unconscious boy to revive him. Rather than causing him to fear the water, this experience prompted Jones to learn how to swim, and now he is passionate about teaching African-American youth how to swim. After watching last night's relay, how many more children will be motivated to learn how to swim? This story brings Romans 8:28 to mind, doesn't it?