trick or treat

My son has never enjoyed Halloween as much as I did when I was a child. First of all, he really didn't relish the idea of wearing a costume for any reason, and face painting was out of the question. He was a very reluctant Thomas the Tank Engine for a couple of years as a preschooler - but he looked so cute! The only costume I remember him being particularly excited about was the dinosaur one that I bought for him in the midst of his lenghty paleontological phase. (Check out the dinosaur documentary he did as a kindergartner - with my assistance - called "Zoorasic.") He actually wore his dinosaur costume around the house on many occasions, uttering appropriate dinosaur roars for the ultimate effect. But I was surprised today when I asked him which of his childhood costumes he liked the best and he recalled the year that he and his buddy, Andrew, dressed up like baseball players for the Atlanta Braves. "You can't go wrong as Greg Maddox," he observed. 

The most memorable costume from my childhood days had to be my store-bought "Lil Devil" apparel, which included the typical red, one-piece jumpsuit that tied in the back at the neck, a plastic mask of a smiling demon, and a pitchfork. What were my parents thinking? Fortunately, my impersonation of Satan did no long-term spiritual damage. My other favorite costume was one I made myself the last year I went trick-or-treating as a teenager - a basic ghost created  by cutting eye holes in a white sheet. My parents have a lovely photo of me wearing my ghost attire (I recall joking about being a holy ghost) while holding our black cat, Tar Baby. Again, what were my parents thinking? I found that my candy intake was heightened if I got on my knees on my neighbors' doorsteps, since then I looked like a cute little ghost (which I wasn't) rather than a greedy teenager (which I was). Of course, if I stood up too soon or the neighbor lingered at the door, the desired effect was lost.

The other reason that Chaney lacks my affection for Halloween is because he doesn't eat chocolate, so bringing home a bulging bag of candy wasn't particularly appealing to him, since he would only consume the Smarties, Blow Pops, Pay Days, and Starbursts. (My son does eat white chocolate, but that is not a staple of the Halloween candy industry.) I, on the other hand, would eat just about anything that was dropped in my bag, including the peanut butter taffy wrapped in orange or black waxed paper. All year long I looked forward to the happy half hour that my sister and two brothers and I would spend sitting crosslegged in the living room floor after making our trick-or-treating rounds trading candy. The first order of business for me was to try to get rid of any Mounds, 3 Musketeers, or Milky Ways in hopes of procuring Snicker's, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, and little packets of candy corn. Anybody want to make a trade?

standing on the promises of God

When I graduated from Franklin High School in 1982, one of my friends gave me a little book titled "The Jesus Person Pocket Promise Book: 800 Promises from the Word of God." The book was divided into three sections - God's Promises for Your Spiritual Needs, God's Promises for Your Personal Needs, and God's Promises for Your Future Needs. In each section, verses of Scripture were grouped under various statements or questions. For instance, under the question, "Do you need wisdom?" twenty verses were listed, including this key verse: "If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all men generously and without reproach, and it will be given to him" (James 1:5 NASB).

I referred to my Pocket Promise Book frequently during my college days and found it to be very helpful in pointing me to passages of Scripture that applied to whatever situtation I was dealing with at the moment. But today when I pulled the book off my shelf for the first time in years, I was a bit startled as I reread David Wilkerson's introduction, since he was undeniably promoting a "name it and claim it" theology. "Carry this book with you at all times," Wilkerson advised. "Think of it as a Bible promise dictionary and refer to it for answers to all your questions and needs."

I love God's Word, but as I study and meditate on the holy Scriptures, I still have questions. Lots of questions. But I have come to embrace the mystery of God, and I don't expect to figure out everything during my limited time here on earth. But I do look forward to the day when all things will be made clear. As the Apostle Paul observed, "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (1 Corinthians 13:12). So for now, I will continue to stand firmly on God's promises, grateful for the salvation He has offered me through Jesus Christ, and trusting that Jesus is interceding for me and my family at the right hand of God (Romans 8:34).

"We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure" (Hebrews 6:19a).

close encounter

This morning I nearly collided with a white-tailed deer. What made this close encounter with a female Odocoileus virginianus unusual was the fact that this near miss occurred not in my vehicle but on foot. I was almost at the end of my two-mile, very brisk walk along Otter Creek Road at Radnor Lake when I was startled by a sudden movement just a few feet ahead of me. Nice job of camouflage, deer. The doe eyed me warily but - surprisingly - did not immediately dart away. After I apologized aloud for disturbing her while she was grazing for her breakfast, we amicably parted ways.

This near miss was clearly my fault - I was preoccupied as I prayerfully pondered how to proceed regarding a pressing problem. (Ahh, alliteration.) Ironically, I had been thinking about Proverbs 3:5-6 - "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding, in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths." Clearly, I could benefit from a little more (make that a lot more) directional help from above, lest I bowl over one of God's creatures in my haste to find my way along life's paths.

no favoritism

Last Friday morning I made a two-hour drive west on I-40 to Jackson to attend the funeral of Kathryn Stewart Highfill. Mrs. Highfill - or Mama High, as she was known by family members - died last Tuesday at the age of 92. I am not directly related to Mama High - she is the maternal grandmother of my first cousins - but I wanted to support my extended family and pay my respects to a remarkable woman.

Mrs. Highfill left her mark on this world primarily through her ministry as a pastor's wife. Her husband, Reverend Hayward Highfill, died in 1998, but during their fruitful fifty years of pastoral ministry, together they served five different congregations. Predictably, many of the stories that were shared at Mrs. Highfill's funeral recounted her experiences as a pastor's wife, and I found one of those stories to be particularly striking. 

Every Sunday, Mrs. Highfill chose to sit in a different place in the sanctuary. Her rationale? She didn't want to be accused of playing favorites, which is what she believed would happen if she sat with the same people every week. As I listened to that story, I thought about several passages of Scripture that address the issue of favoritism. In his letter to the church at Rome, Paul reminded the Roman Christians that "God does not show favoritism" (Romans 2:11). In his letter, James admonished his readers to follow God's example, warning that Christ followers who show favoritism are guilty of sin (James 2:1-9). Clearly, Mrs. Highfill took these words seriously. God doesn't play favorites; neither should we.

Happy Birthday, Son!

On a Wednesday evening 18 years ago today, Chaney Paul Swiney was born at 9:47 p.m. at West Side Hospital (now the Women's Hospital at Centennial) in Nashville. Born on his due date (which perhaps explains his predilection for punctuality), Chaney weighed 8 pounds and 10 ounces and was 20 3/4 inches long. We had checked into the hospital at 8:30 p.m. on Tuesday evening, but after waiting nine months, what's another 25 hours? Relatives on my side of the family insisted he looked "just like a Brown" and relatives on Paul's side of the family observed "you can tell he's a Swiney." 

Paul and I had not known in advance whether we were having a boy or a girl, but it was a good thing we had a boy, since we had been unable to agree on a girl's name. "Chaney" is an adaptation of the name of American gymnast Chainey Umphrey, who received his father's nickname, which the elder Umphrey earned after he defended himself in a Philadelphia street fight with - you guessed it - a chain. This is not the kind of name that has a super-spiritual meaning that can be shared at a baby dedication, but we liked it anyway. Chaney shares his middle name with both his father and grandfather - Ronny Paul Swiney, Jr., and Ronny Paul Swiney, respectively. 

The past eighteen years have flown by, but every day it has been my unparalleled joy to watch my only child mature in wisdom, in stature, and in favor with God and people. A mother could not ask for a better son. 

Wii Fit

My parents knew I wanted Wii Fit for my birthday, but since their current life circumstances mean they don't have the time or energy to stake out the big box retailers waiting for a shipment of this difficult-to-find product, they simply gave me the money in a birthday card and wished me luck in my search. Since my schedule this fall has been incredibly busy, I haven't had time during the past two months to search locally for the game, even though I was eager to get my hands (or, more accurately, my feet) on it. In hopes of snagging one online, I subscribed to Wii Fit Tracker, but each time I received an email advising me that one was available, by the time I clicked the link, the inventory was gone. 

Yesterday morning after I completed my walk at Radnor Lake, I had a sudden hunch that I ought to go to the Wal-Mart Supercenter near my house. (Question: Would the Holy Spirit actually prompt someone to go to Wal-Mart?) I made a beeline for the electronics department, and guess what I found locked in a glass case? Not one, but two Wii Fits were available. I guess if I had been feeling greedy, I would have immediately purchased both units and then put the second one up for sale on eBay, but I decided to let someone else experience the wave of happiness that washes over you when you finally find something you've been seeking.

Chaney and I played Wii Fit for quite awhile yesterday afternoon, and last night we introduced Paul to the game. The first time you play, Wii Fit asks you for your height and age, weighs you, and assesses your balance. After a few moments, Wii Fit informs you what your Body Mass Index is - and whether or not that is a healthy number. Then - with great fanfare - Wii Fit announces your Wii Fit age. As you take advantage of Wii Fit's four training modes - yoga, balance games, strength training, and aerobics - you should be able to lower your Wii Fit age over time. Suffice it to say that Chaney's Wii Fit age matched his actual age, while Paul's and mine did not.

As I thought about the concept of a Wii Fit age, I wondered what it would be like if someone manufactured a device that could assess a person's spiritual age. Theoretically, your desire would be to attain a higher number of spiritual fitness in order to demonstrate that you are maturing in your faith in Christ (as opposed to Wii Fit, where a lower number indicates physical fitness). Perhaps such a device would prompt a Christ-follower to consider what steps he or she needed to take in order to become more spiritually fit. Instead of focusing on exercising and eating healthfully, in order to succeed in this endeavor, a person would have to pursue a rigorous regimen of spiritual disciplines. 

I certainly want to lower my Wii Fit age in the days to come, but I need to be even more focused on my spiritual health. "For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come" (1 Timothy 4:8).

Chaney's walk

My dear husband of 23 years will admit that he generally lacks creativity, but I must give him praise for the plan he developed to help our son mark his 18th birthday. Several weeks ago, Paul contacted several men who have played key roles in Chaney's life and asked them to take part in a special event in which they would have the opportunity to spend a few minutes sharing advice with Chaney.

Last Saturday afternoon, Paul took Chaney to Radnor Lake. They walked the short distance from the East Parking Lot to the Lake Trail, where they met up with my dad, much to Chaney's surprise. Paul then passed Chaney off to my father, and grandson and grandfather walked and talked along the Lake Trail for several minutes - the conversation included a reference to Napoleon - until they rendezvoused with my brother Todd at the point where Ganier Ridge branches off from the Lake Trail. Todd and Chaney then continued to walk along the Lake Trail until they reached the lake overlook, where my brother Trev awaited his turn on the journey. Trev escorted Chaney to the Visitor Center, where Scott was waiting. Scott is a Belmont student who has been serving as a Student Ministry intern at our church, and he has been a wonderful mentor for Chaney during the past few months. Scott and Chaney backtracked up the Lake Access Trail, then walked across the dam where they met Bob, who has worked with Chaney at church for the past four years and is one of his current Sunday School teachers. Bob and Chaney walked east on Otter Creek Road along the lake's shoreline until they met up with Randy, another adult whose life has intersected Chaney's through the Student Ministry at our church. Randy and Chaney then completed the final leg of this special journey and rejoined Paul and some of Chaney's previous walking  companions at the original drop-off point on the Lake Trail. The group talked for a few moments and then shared a prayer together before everyone dispersed.

Proverbs 27:17 says, "As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another." I am grateful for the countless ways in which God has used each one of these men to sharpen my son. I told Chaney that when he turns 21, he will be taking a walk with a bunch of women. :)

sauerkraut

This morning I heard part of Terry Gross's fascinating interview with Michael Pollan about his open letter to the President-Elect that was recently published in The New York Times Magazine under the title "Farmer in Chief." Among the suggestions that Pollan offered in this lengthy article is the creation of a School Lunch Corps program that will forgive federal student loans to culinary-school graduates in exchange for two years of service in the public-school lunch program. His discussion of school lunch menus immediately transported me back to my days at Alexander Elementary School in Jackson, Tennessee, where I attended 1st grade, 3rd grade, 4th grade, and 5th grade. (We lived in three different school zones while I was in elementary school.)

My favorite thing about Alexander was the safety patrol room. Since my mom was a kindergarten teacher at Alexander, if I was sick (or was pretending to be sick), I was not sent home. Instead, I was escorted to the safety patrol room, where I could rest on a cot until the school day ended. Such happy memories!

My least favorite thing about Alexander (besides the scary 4th grade teacher who would chase children down the hall and corner them in the bathroom, where she would beat on the stall doors with a paddle in a vain effort to force them out of hiding) was the cafeteria food. In fact, when my parents informed me that we would be moving to the Nashville area at the conclusion of my 5th grade school year, I was relieved because it meant that I would no longer have to fear being assigned Mrs. Sneed's 6th grade class. Mrs. Sneed forced her students to eat at least one bite of everything that was slopped onto their lunch trays, and, consequently, there were always piles of uneaten food underneath her classroom's designated table in the lunchroom. Fridays were the worst days of all, since sauerkraut was always on the menu. I will always be grateful to God that he provided my father with a new job in Nashville in the summer of 1975, since it spared me from a school year plagued by sauerkraut. If a School Lunch Corps program is ever created, I trust they will institute a no sauerkraut rule. 

green light

This morning my pastor preached about being burned out. While undoubtedly there were many people in the pews who related to his message, I realized as I contemplated his words that I am anything but burned out. In fact, the image that came to my mind as I listened to the sermon was one of a driver who is sitting at a red light, impatiently revving her engine while waiting to see green so she can continue her journey as quickly as possible. As I pondered that image, a quotation popped into my head, one that I first read about a decade ago when my family visited Daytona International Speedway. The words are attributed to NASCAR founder Bill France, Sr., and were posted in large letters on a wall in an exhibit area: "On the plains of hesitation lie the bleached bones of millions who, when within the grasp of victory sat and waited, and waiting, died.” 

I am determined not to linger on the plains of hesitation. I know there are times when God wants us to wait, and there are great lessons to be learned in the waiting. But I'm watching for the green light (or green flag, if you prefer a NASCAR term), and I'll be ready to hit the gas when I see it.

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us. Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart" Hebrews 12:1-3.

Saturday mornings

As children, my sister and I always enjoyed the opportunity to spend the night with either set of our grandparents - especially since it allowed us to escape from our two pesky younger brothers for several blessed hours. I'm sure we had more of these Friday night sleepovers at Granda and Daddy Bent's house (since they lived just a couple of miles away from us), than we did with Mutt and Granddad (since they lived an hour away).

At Granda and Daddy Bent's house on Skyline Drive in our hometown of Jackson, Tifni and I would usually sleep in Uncle Ben's room. Ben was our mother's much-younger brother (age difference of ten years), and after he vacated his bedroom in order to attend Union University, it became the guest room. We usually woke up in his double bed a few minutes after 6:00 a.m., and as 6:30 a.m. approached we crept through the living room - past the crystal bowl full of lemon drops - to the den. After turning on the TV, we nestled ourselves into the twin recliners and restlessly watched The Farm Bureau Report, anxiously awaiting the magic hour of 7:00 a.m., when the Saturday morning cartoons would be aired. 

While we watched cartoons, we always heard noises in the kitchen indicating that our breakfast of canned biscuits was being prepared. The best thing about the canned biscuit breakfasts was that there were always some left over, which we were allowed to toss out the backdoor to lure the squirrels. My grandparents' toy poodle, Thane, would then stand sentinel on his hind legs peering out the screen door, awaiting a squirrel's arrival. As soon as he spotted one, we would fling open the door and Thane would dart out the door, launch himself off the concrete slab of a back porch, and hightail it through the yard in a vain attempt to catch a biscuit-eating squirrel. He never caught a single one.

Our routine at Mutt and Granddad's house was very different and had its own charms. We had several options of where we could sleep at their house, but no matter where we slept we could hear the ticking of clocks. Restoring old clocks was one of Granddad's hobbies, so almost every room in the house featured a ticking, chiming timepiece. When we woke up on Saturday mornings in our paternal grandparents' white-columned house on Stonewall Drive in Union City, we knew we would not be reclining and watching cartoons. Instead, we had to get up early and go to work with my grandmother at her business, the Hospital Flower Shop. 

As we walked through the business's back door shortly before 7:00 a.m., Mutt would unfailingly ask, "Do you want a Coke? Go get yourself one - the key is in the machine." This was the moment I had been waiting for - a chance to drink an ice cold Coke out of a glass bottle for breakfast! (It was a bad habit I continued to indulge for roughly three decades.) Fully caffeinated, my sister and I would then get to work alongside the Hospital Flower Shop's employees creating our own arrangements, which Mutt graciously allowed us to price and place on the shelves in the showroom. Amazingly, every Saturday after we returned to the Shop from lunch, our floral creations had been sold!

Mulling over these Saturday morning childhood memories has made me hungry and thirsty. While I can't bring myself to pop open a can of biscuits, I think I'll bake my favorite Pillsbury frozen biscuits as a suitable substitute. And since I have glass bottles of Coke in my fridge, I know what I can use to wash them down.

poverty

Every morning when I check my email inbox, I see the “5 Minutes of Caring” message from CoolPeopleCare. These daily email messages from Sam Davidson are limited to 99 words that challenge individuals to consider how they can change their community and make a difference in the world.

This morning’s message emphasized “Blog Action Day” – a day when bloggers and media outlets are encouraged to highlight the issue of poverty. The timing is fitting, since right now the presidential candidates are debating at Hofstra University - Paul and I are recording the debate as we wait for Chaney to get home so we can all watch it together - but if the previous two debates are any indication, we will likely hear a lot about the needs of the American middle class, but very little about the plight of the poor who live in our country or elsewhere in the world. 

Did you know that 37.3 Americans were living in poverty in 2007? (U.S. Census Bureau)
Did you know that 2.1 billion people - almost half the world's population - live on less than $2 a day, and 800 million of these people survive on less than $1 a day? (World Development Report 2008)

For a little perspective about just how fortunate we are, check out the Global Rich List. By inputting your income, you'll find out how you rank in wealth compared to the rest of the world. For instance, if your salary is only $20,000 a year, you fall within the top 11.16% of the richest people in the world. If you make $40,000 a year, you're in the top 3.17%.

So take the challenge and investigate the Global Rich List. I'll bet you'll discover that you're wealthier than you think. Then consider what you can do to help those who are less fortunate than you are. "I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me" (Matthew 25:45).

S'mores galore

I think tent camping has a biblical basis. After all, didn't the Israelites spend forty years dwelling in tents in the wilderness? Unlike the Israelites, though, the 48 folks who camped together at Big South Fork last weekend didn't have a pillar of cloud by day or a pillar of fire by night to guide us, but we certainly had plenty of other reminders of God's presence in our midst. 

What a glorious weekend! The colors of the leaves were more vivid than I can ever recall on our previous annual camping trips to Big South Fork. The weather was much warmer than we had experienced in the past - I had never worn sandals and shorts while delivering my mini-sermon at the Saturday evening campfire before - but the evenings were comfortably cool and well-suited for a slumber in a sleeping bag. The daytime skies were a brilliant blue, and the evening skies were studded with more stars than we could ever count. The twelve families who gathered at the group campground at Bandy Creek - Stewarts, Atkinses, Fousts, Kennons, Walshes, Hartzells, Robersons, Cateses, Swineys, Gipsons, Pollards, and Robertsons - made a fresh batch of memories this past weekend, served up with a heaping helping of laughter. 

We took two group hikes during the weekend - a Saturday afternoon trek along the Big South Fork River to the O&W Railroad Bridge (4.6 miles round-trip) and a Sunday afternoon excursion along the Twin Arches Loop Trail (2.8 miles). During the rest of our time together, clusters of adults gathered around picnic tables and campfires, enjoying the kind of extended conversations that we rarely have time for during our busy days at home. Clumps of children shuffled through the woods on the lookout for the black bear that had been spotted in the campground earlier in the week. Some teenagers played football in the field, while others played cards in the pavilion. And we ate - a lot. Our community meal on Saturday evening - featuring four batches of chili and the Pollards' delicious cornbread, among many other dishes - was delicious as usual, but we were still able to consume large quantities of S'mores after the evening devotion around the campfire.

Camping at Big South Fork is like going back to a simpler time, a time when grownups passed the evening telling stories on the front porch while their children chased fireflies in the yard. Plenty of stories were shared this past weekend at Bandy Creek - stories that our children will undoubtedly recount to their own offspring in years to come. And while there were many outbursts of laughter among our children this past weekend, the adults laughed louder and longer. In fact, we often laughed until we cried. A cheerful heart really is good medicine (Proverbs 17:22).

happy camper

In October 1996, my family took our first camping trip to Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area, which straddles the Tennessee-Kentucky border on the Cumberland Plateau. I had never camped in a tent before that weekend (sleeping in a car at a campground doesn't really count as camping, but those are stories for another day). I chose Big South Fork for our first camping experience because my friend Amy swore that the bathhouses were cleaner than her own bathrooms, so we acquired a tent and other basic equipment and made the three-hour drive to the Bandy Creek Campground. (FYI: The bathhouses really are incredibly clean.)

During that trip, we ran into Lauryn, a friend from church who I had first met on a mission trip to Scotland five years earlier. Lauryn told us that several families from our church were camping together at one of Bandy Creek's two group campgrounds, an experience that had become their annual tradition. Lauryn then invited us to join them for their community meal that evening, which we did. That night we asked them to add us to their camping roster, and we've been making the trip to Big South Fork every October since then. 

Chaney was a kindergartner the first time we camped; now he's a senior in high school. Camping at Big South Fork is one of our family's most cherished traditions. Tomorrow our family will set up at camp at Bandy Creek once again, along with eleven other families. In accordance with tradition, we will take a group hike on Saturday, which almost always features one or more boys getting their shoes wet in the Big South Fork of the Cumberland River. Saturday night we will share a community meal (a chili supper) at the pavilion before regrouping around the campfire circle, where I will share an evening devotion (I'm thinking about Elijah). Afterwards, the teenagers (and some adults) usually head up to the field where we take advantage of the lack of light pollution and stargaze to our hearts' content. I can't wait!

"The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies display the work of His hands. Day after day they pour forth speech, night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard" (Psalm 19:1-3).

the art of communication

Recently I have been rereading a book that ought to be on every political junkie's bookshelf - All's Fair: Love, War, and Running for President by Mary Matalin and James Carville. In the book, this political odd couple recounts their starkly divergent perspectives from their respective camps in the Bush and Clinton campaigns during the 1992 presidential election. I first read the book shortly after it was released in 1994 and decided that I needed to revisit it during this year's election cycle, especially since Matalin and Carville are familiar faces on the cable news circuit these days.

I have been interested in political campaigns ever since my father ran for Congress in 1974 (he lost to the incumbent), and I ended up majoring in Political Science at the University of Tennessee. The behind-the-scenes stories that these two political operatives share in All's Fair are fascinating, and there is a lot to be learned from observing their successes and failures as they sought to communicate their candidates' messages to the press and the voters. 

In one section of the book, Carville described the art of "wiring up the event" - anticipating who reporters will call to comment on an event, then preemptively contacting them to prepare them to respond in a way that reflects favorably on your candidate. Carville observed: "There are even times when you've got to wire up an event within your own organization. If you call and explain your plans and your reasoning, people will tend to be more supportive than if you just spring it on them. That goes for people inside the campaign, it goes for reporters, it goes for people in every day life. It's better to tell somebody ahead of time and get their support than to tell them afterward and try to change their mind."

One of the things that frustrates me most when working within an organization - whether it is a secular or religious one - is when leaders fail to anticipate the questions that will likely arise regarding a proposed plan. I am more keenly aware than ever these days that many leaders lack what Lee Atwater called the ability to "see around corners," and far too often leaders set themselves (and their plans) up for failure when they don't think through the consequences of a proposal. Even worse, many leaders believe that by springing a potentially controversial plan on people without notice, they are actually increasing the likelihood of its adoption. The element of surprise is great at birthday parties, but not so good for consensus-building. 

the humility of untitled ministry

I am still processing my experiences from the CBF-sponsored Women's Spiritual Formation Retreat that I attended last week in Atlanta. The retreat provided me with a remarkable - not to mention rare - opportunity to spend time with over 40 Baptist clergywomen (both ordained and unordained) who are using their God-given gifts in a variety of ways in ministry. My favorite job title was "Minister to Young Adults and of Creative Discipleship," but there were also pastors, associate pastors, ministers of music, church administrators, ministers for every age group, and chaplains in attendance.

Dr. Molly Marshall, president of Central Baptist Theological Seminary in Kansas City (the only female president of a Baptist seminary in this hemisphere), was one of the retreat speakers. Dr. Marshall is a hero to many Baptist women (and men) because of the way she gracefully persevered persecution within the Southern Baptist Convention. The first time I heard Dr. Marshall preach was at the Tennessee Cooperative Baptist Fellowship General Assembly in April 2006, and I was eager to hear her again. I was not disappointed. She is a brilliant theologian and a wonderful role model for women in ministry.

In a panel discussion during the final teaching session of the retreat, Dr. Marshall acknowledged the challenges that women in ministry face, and she encouraged us to persevere. "Begin with the humility of untitled ministry," she advised us. "It will open a pathway." Then she added, "God remembers He called you to ministry." I know I needed to hear those words. I'll bet I'm not alone.

two red things

I always have two red things in my car - a tassel and a bracelet. I hung the red tassel from my rearview mirror in May 2004, and I placed the red bracelet around my gear shift in the summer of 2006. 

The red tassel hung on the black cap that was perched precariously on my head during Samford University's Commencement on Saturday, May 22, 2004, at the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Complex Arena. The presence of the tassel annoys my husband, who prefers to wrap it around the rearview mirror so it can't swing freely while he drives my car. But the tassel remains because it reminds me of God's call, His provision, and His protection. God called me to go to Beeson Divinity School to work on a Master of Divinity degree, He faithfully provided the resources for me to do so, and He protected me as I commuted twice a week between Nashville and Birmingham for four years (and 100,000 miles). The tassel reminds me that when I am willing to step out in faith and trust God to lead and empower me, He is able to do immeasurably more than I ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within me (Ephesians 3:20).

The red bracelet is made of plastic and emblazoned with the word "Courage." Debbie Harned's family and friends began wearing these bracelets when she began treatment for a rare form of cancer in January 2006. Since I do a lot of praying in my car, I eventually decided to place my bracelet in my car to prompt me to pray for Debbie and her family. Throughout her battle with the disease, Debbie continued to minister to others, even as they attempted to minister to her. Debbie was one of my mentors, and I deeply miss the lunches we shared in the physicians' cafeteria at Baptist Hospital where she served as a chaplain. Today when I look at that red bracelet on my gear shift, I remember Debbie's courage and take courage myself, recalling the words of one of Debbie's favorite verses of Scripture: "We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure" (Hebrews 6:19).

Two red things in a green car - powerful, portable, personal symbols of God's faithfulness.

on a hallowed hill in Tennessee

On a Hallowed hill in Tennessee,
Like Beacon shining bright,
The stately walls of old U.T.
Rise glorious to the sight.
So here's to you old Tennessee, 
Our Alma Mater true.
We pledge in love and harmony
Our loyalty to you.

If you have ever been to a football game at Neyland Stadium on the campus of the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, you have heard these words sung during the Pride of the Southland Band's halftime show. I was a proud alumna yesterday when my family spent most of the day on campus for the UT Scholars Invitational. My son didn't need another campus visit to help him decide where to go to college (since he apparently made that decision about the time he started kindergarten), but we made the trip to learn more about the honors programs offered at UT. As a 1985 graduate of UT's College Scholars program, I was personally pleased to discover how the honors program has grown through the years, and I am confident that Chaney is going to receive an outstanding education at my alma mater.

During a browse session when we were encouraged to visit with representatives of various campus programs, we stopped at the booth hosted by the Office of Student Orientation and Leadership Development. The young woman who greeted us was extremely excited to discover that Paul and I were both former Student Orientation Assistants (SOAs). I served as an SOA during both my summers at UT, and Paul and I began dating when we served together as SOAs during the summer of 1984. We had actually interacted briefly during the previous summer when we both took a U.S. History course that required us to watch videos on small monitors in the library. We met when we both were waiting in the library to watch a documentary about Justice Hugo Black. During that first encounter, Paul was wondering why I was wearing purple overalls, and I was wondering where in the world Philadelphia, Tennessee, was. (For the record, Paul's hometown is located 40 miles southwest of Knoxville between Loudon and Sweetwater.)

I never dreamed as I roamed the campus of the University of Tennessee for three happy years that one day I would have a son who would follow in my footsteps. But by this time next fall, he will be the one roaming, and I couldn't be happier for him.

the sound of silence

Earlier this week, I participated in the Women's (Clergy) Spiritual Formation Retreat sponsored by the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. The retreat was held at Ignatius House in Sandy Springs, Georgia, just north of Atlanta. Ignatius House is owned and operated by the Jesuit Fathers and Brothers of the New Orleans Province of the Society of Jesus and is named after Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit Order. 

The retreat began at noon on Monday and ended at 1:00 p.m. on Wednesday. Of the 49 hours that we spent together, 25 were devoted to silence. Five times we observed hour-long periods of silence for reflection and sabbath. Each evening we observed the monastic tradition of the Great Silence, which began after our evening worship and was broken by the sound of a bell when we gathered for morning prayer.

In preparation for the retreat, we were encouraged to read Henri Nouwen's The Way of the Heart: Desert Spirituality and Contemporary Ministry. In this book, Nouwen focused on three of the spiritual disciplines practiced by the Desert Fathers and Mothers who lived in the Egyptian desert during the fourth and fifth centuries: solitude, silence, and prayer. Nouwen observed, "In our chatty world, in which the word has lost its power to communicate, silence helps us to keep our mind and heart anchored in the future world and allows us to speak from there a creative and recreative word to the present world. Thus silence can also give us concrete guidance in the practice of our ministry."

I had not realized how deeply I craved silence until I was afforded this opportunity to practice it for an extended period. As a writer and teacher, I was challenged by Nouwen's assertion that "silence gives strength and fruitfulness to the word." If I want my words to be fruitful - whether written or spoken - I must regularly retreat into God's silence.