What I'm Thinking

A CHILD IS BORN!

Hello all! Has it really been three weeks since I've posted? Please forgive me -- but I've been giving birth.

Not that kind of birth. Just for the record, were I to become miraculously pregnant, I would throw myself in front of a train! No -- I've been delivering other kinds of children -- the book kind. MUG -- the Moms Ultimate Guide to the Tween Girl World -- is now finished, and Zondervan has had me on the run already marketing it for its July release. No complaints about that! It was a huge project  -- when was the last time I had to do FOOTNOTES? -- and I'm so eager for it to get into the hands of the mothers of 8 to 12 year old girls. Taping a book trailer, speaking at the sales conference -- it's all been a blast, but, wow, I don't have the energy I had when I actually WAS the mother of a tween daughter. (that's why true child-bearing happens when you're young)

Next it was the final edits for two of the four teen books coming out next year. It was like multiple personality disorder, jumping from talking to thirty-something mothers to speaking in the voice of a fifteen year old (I found the latter easiler to be quite honest; what does that say about my maturity level?)

And then Healing Sands was released -- and was I ready for that? Obviously not, or I would have announced its publication here a whole lot sooner. It snuck up on me -- but when I held it in my hands in its completed state for the first time, I actually had the urge to count its fingers and toes. (I did in fact find a birth defect -- they left out the acknowledgments page . . .) 

But there hasn't been much time to celebrate, because the deadline for Steve's and my next book, The Reluctant Prophet, is looming and I'm not even past the first trimester on that. Somebody's going to want to see it sonogram soon and the mama isn't even close to being ready. Mind you, I'm not whining. With so many people out of work, writers looking for day jobs, and royalties dropping for just about everybody but Sarah Palin (don't even get me started), I am grateful to be this busy. But it does bring some important things to mind. Spiritual stuff . . .

It's like Advent, which we're in the middle of, as indicated by the three (count them, 3) candles I'm lighting each morning this week on my advent wreath. It's the time of preparation for the celebration of the birth of the Christ child. And yet we have to make a huge effort to even give that a thought as we're shopping, baking, writing out cards, wrapping, decorating, dieting to squeeze into that cocktail dress for the office party, and/or feeling guilty because we're not doing all of the above. The little ones are counting down the days (one girl on my tween blog gives us a report by the hour and minute every morning!), while we grown-ups groan and say,"No, don't tell me I only have nine days left! I'll never make it!) It is just so (to use the fave word of Sullivan Crisp) DANG hard to focus on what it means that that little baby was born -- and how we can prepare yet again to invite him into our souls and lives.

I'm trying this year to get ready for this birth-celebration with more intention than I do the release of the next book. I've been lighting the candles on the wreath daily. (And cleaning up the wax that's dripping all over the table) Reading and studying the pre-nativity and Messianic/prophetic Scriptures (can I just say that Isaiah could have used a good editor?), and listening to Handel's Messiah with new ears (I can't hit the high notes in the "Hallelujah Chorus" anymore, so I might as well listen instead of trying to sing -- screech -- along) It takes effort -- and I'm falling behind on some other things, like announcing Healing Sands, setting up a Facebook Fan page (anybody have a clue how to do that?), and, oh, yeah, posting here on the blog I love so much. But it feels like a matter of priorities .  . .

Somehow the word will get out that Healing Sands is available. I have a co-author, a marketing team at Thomas Nelson, and incredible people like  Mocha With Linda and Sue Berly writing reviews so fabulous I can barely get my head out of my office door. That "baby's" birth will happen with or without me. But Jesus being reborn in me -- that isn't going to happen unless I'm paying attention. Unless I'm opening up, looking inside, making room amid the mother-worrying and the deadline-meeting and the deadline-rearranging. Christmas will come whether I'm ready or not. So will those deadlines and speaking dates and meetings with editors. But the real difference Christ makes in my life won't come until I'm ready -- and that, fortunately, has a deadline, too. So I've got to be on it. That's what I'm thinking.

So thanks for being patient when weeks go by and you find only the post from November 25. And thanks for understanding that I haven't made this offer before now -- the first FIVE people who post will receive a free copy of Healing Sands and two signed book plates just in case you want to buy a couple more for other readers.

And thanks for being my fellow pilgrims in preparation. I would love to hear how you're gearing yourself up for the birth. Anybody in labor? Still having morning sickness? Dilated -- okay, we won't go that far! (sorry, those of you of the male persuasion) Even if you feel like a labor coach for your soul, I'd love to hear. We're all on the journey to Bethlehem together (and I hope this time, somebody brought diapers)

Blessings,

Nancy Rue

Last Jesus-Question: Do You Love Me?

 Hello, my friends and fellow turkey-stuffers. If you're like me, you're busy today, searching in the back of the pantry for those cans of cranberry sauce you bought and wondering if you ever got the stains out of the white tablecloth before you put it away last year. So many marvelously mundane things to do to preserve the much-loved traditions. And yet, I had to take time out to write to you today, not only to wish you the happiest of Thanksgivings, but to tie up our series on the questions Jesus asks us. It seems so appropriate to dwell for these few moments on the final words of the Gospels before we start all over again on this Sunday's beginning of the Advent season (And oh, the places we'll go with that . . . .)

In the Gospel According to John, Chapter 21, verses 15-17, Jesus leans back after breakfast on the beach with his disciples -- and some days after his Resurrection -- and asks Simon Peter, not once but three times, "Do you love me?" I've read that each of the words Jesus uses for "love" has a slightly different meaning (does somebody want to refresh our memories on that?) -- but Peter's answer to each one is the same, with increasing degrees of passion.

                "Yes, Master, you know I love you."

                'Yes, Master, you know I love you."

                "Master, you know everything there is to know. You've got to know that I love you."

I for one believe Peter is telling the truth. He thought Jesus --his beloved teacher, his best friend, his closer-than-a-brother, his Lord -- was dead. He's only recently discovered that Jesus is, indeed, alive. He's probably turning inside OUT with love for the man. Any of us would forget any pain caused by a now-departed loved one if he or she were to miraculously appear at Thursday's Thanksgiving table. Do I love him? Are you serious? Captain, the puppy in the above picture, gave me many a "don't you love me?" face in his short life, and my answer was usually yes -- with the exception of the times when I came home to find that he and his "brother" Sully had continued their mission to eat all the linoleum off of the laundry room floor. If you'll recall, Captain was shot by a neighbor eleven months ago. If he were somehow brought back to me to curl at my feet as I write, I would love even his chewed-up floor tiles.

For a while. Even the unconditional love we feel for our kids, our spouses, our faithful canine and feline friends has "levels." We always love them, but we're less enthusiastic about expressing it when they've provided us with artwork in Sharpie on the dining room wall or forgotten yet again to take out the garbage or peed for the fifteenth time on the Oriental rug (I'll let you decide who did what). Perhaps that's why Jesus asks Peter three times, "Do you love me?" (although I like to think it's also because he's giving Peter the same number of chances to acknowledge him as the number of times he betrayed him on the night of his arrest) And it's probably why after each protestation of undying devotion Peter gives him, Jesus tells him how he wants him to show it. "Feed my lambs." "Shepherd my sheep." "Feed my sheep." He even follows up those instructions with a peek at what it's going to cost Peter to love him that way, indicating "the kind of death by which Peter would glorify God."  All the warm fuzzies Peter now feels notwithstanding, this isn't going to be easy.

What I'm thinking is that it isn't easy for us, either. It IS when we're involved in praise and worship --whatever that looks like for each of us -- and we're filled with such deep adoration for our Lord Christ. I pulled out my recording of Handel's Messiah this morning (I couldn't wait until Sunday) and as I drove along and sang with 'Unto Us a Child Is Born" my heart swelled within me. That's when it's easy to close your eyes (though not while driving) and say, "I love you I love you I love you," and mean it with everything that's in you.

But it isn't as easy when loving Jesus means feeding those lambs. Going out of your way to make the holiday special for people you don't want to hang out with any other time of the year but are obligated to between November 26 and December 25 or even January 1. (By the way, Barb, Mike, Hannah, Brad, and Kimberly, this does not apply to any of you!)  When it means shepherding those sheep -- your kids who drive you nuts at this time of year, the people who want to rip the meaning out of your observance of these sacred occasions, those same relatives who can't wait for the turkey to be carved so they can bring up the topic of health care reform. "If you love me, feed my sheep," Jesus says. What we discover as we try to do that is that not all the sheep are terribly lovable. In fact, like actual sheep, they can be oily, dirty, clumpy, stupid and can bleat longer than you can listen to them -- sometimes literally as well as figuratively.

But the operative word is "my". They may be OUR relatives, but they're HIS lambs. He's put them in our lives for a reason, and if we're going to live a Jesus-lovin'-life, we'd do well to embrace them -- grungy wool and all -- just the way he does. I'm thinking that what that means on Thanksgiving Day is that as we're appreciating the grandchildren and the mashed potatoes and the fact that we still have jobs, we have to also give thanks for the uncle who comes to the table without his teeth and the  brother-in-law who tries to sell you insurance over the pumpkin pie and the cousin who lets her kid squirt whipped cream into the toilet. They are His lambs. We gotta feed 'em and shepherd 'em and look for the tiny flickers of things we can love. Uncle Somebody may put his dentures in his pocket, but he'd give you the shirt off his back (teeth and all) if you needed it. Your brother-in-law may be insufferable with the sales pitches, but your sister is never going to want for securty. That cousin may let her toddler take over your house, but when she rocks him to sleep, you have to blink to make sure it's not the Madonna herself.

"Do you love me?" Jesus says to us. "Yes, Master, you know I love you!" we all answer. Then feed my lambs as I have fed you -- with gladness and singlessness of heart -- and in all things (including dysfunctional families and I've-been-at-this-stove-all-day fatigue) give thanks.

One kind of loving is easy --  my love for you. You are truly my brothers and sisters in Christ, and I would be honored to have any of you at my table tomorrow. Know that my prayers of gratefulness will include you all.

Blessings,

Nancy Rue           

               

 

ANOTHER JESUS QUESTION: HOW MANY TIMES?

I have a confession to make -- one I may have made here before (but if you're in my age bracket you probably don't remember!). Here it is: until about 15 years ago, I didn't particularly like Jesus.

Before you declare me a heretic or send for the exorcist, hear me out. As much as I loved the healing, the saving, the gathering of little children on the lap -- as definitely as i believed that Christ was and is the Son of God and came to save us from ourselves --   I was still put off by what I saw in the Gospels as the "rebuking" Jesus. I didn't even know what the word "rebuke" meant when I was a kid, but I still cringed when someone read aloud, "And Jesus rebuked them." Just the tone of it told me that whatever it was, it couldn't be good. I would try to imagine myself as one of the disciples being chewed out, and I knew I would have had to follow Jesus from some distance to keep from getting my feelings hurt. I was never a child -- or an adult -- who had to be yelled at in order to "get it," and I sure wasn't going to put myself out there to be a target for scolding.

And then I found Eugene Peterson's The Message. For the first time -- and this was the mid-nineties, mind you -- I understood where Jesus was coming from -- and who the disciples were (as dense a bunch as any of us!) -- and why he at times became impatient with them.The Myers-Briggs approach to personality types was also helpful. As the Perfect Teacher, Jesus would know I was an NF, and would realize that the in-your-face style  was sure to send me running for Buddhism.

And yet  . . .

There are passages like this one from Matthew 17:17, where there is no denying that Jesus is rebuking to the hilt. Even Eugene Peterson doesn't soften the blow. A man comes out of a crowd around Jesus and begs him to cure his son who suffers from seizures. He's already tried the disciples, but they weren't able to keep the boy from pitching himself into the fire or the river. Jesus boils over:

                "What a generation! No sense of God! No focus to your lives! How many times do I have to go over these things? How much longer do I have to put up with this?"

There really is no "nice" way to translate that -- or even interpret it. Jesus isn't being "nice" here -- at least not to the people he'd been working with intensively. When you put the passage into its larger context, it's certainly understandable. Just prior to this incident, In the very same chapter, three of those disciples saw Jesus transfigured before their very eyes. They heard God Himself say, clearly, "This is my Son, marked by my love, focus of my delight. Listen to him." (vs. 5) What more did they need to believe -- to give them enough faith to move mountains? (vs. 20) Seriously, his exasperation is understandable -- even for me. There really is no other way to say it than, "How many times do I have to go over this?"

Now, as a mother I know that i said (more than once), "How many times do I have to tell you, Marijean?" I know I never expected an answer. In fact, if she had said, "I think about thirty would do it, Mom," I probably would have flushed her down the toilet. But I think Jesus does expect an answer. And here is mine: "As many times as it takes for me to get it."  

             Get it that you love me unconditionally.

                  Get it that I don't have to prove anything to you.

                Get it that you aren't going to abandon me to my own stupidness.               

                        Get it that iI can't do this life thing without you.

                        Get it that your will isn't a secret that I have to figure out.

How ever many times it takes, Lord, that's how many times I need for you to go over it  -- until I get that poppy-seed size kernel of faith you talk about. Because as long as I keep asking, and keep trusting that you have the answers, we're in relationship. How long do you have to put up with me? I hope forever.

That's what I'm thinking. What are you thinking? I'd love to hear what YOU need to keep hearing from God, over and over.

And over . . .

Blessings,

Nancy Rue             

ANOTHER JESUS QUESTION: "WHAT ARE YOU DISCUSSING?"

I had my nails done yesterday. Because the folks who own and operate the salon are all Vietnamese with limited English vocabulary, I usually go in, exchange smiles with everyone, and then daydream while my acrylic tips are being applied. Imagine my surprise yesterday when I arrived to find that the entire establishment had been transformed since my last visit. New decor, some additional personnel, even the offer of a glass of wine as I sank into the chair. It was all quite lovely, and the newest partner in the undertaking was so visibly proud, I made congratulations all around. Han (who knows how to actually spell that -- my apologies, Han), was particularly eager for me to see the two plasma screen tvs on the wall, each tuned into a different channel. It made sense, actually, since conversation never goes beyond "hi-how-are ya" -- much as I would love to know more about them. But as I went back and forth between the screens, I made a conscious decision to learn the Vietnamese language.

On screen #1 was the Jerry Springer Show. I'm familiar with the reputation of this "talk show", but had never actually watched it. Once I latched my gaze onto it, it was like witnessing a train wreck. I could not pull myself away out of sheer disbelief. The theme for the day was "men who want to break up with women who won't leave." One guy had "milked his cash cow" until she was dry and was ready to move on. The "cow" in question came on, weighing in at somewhere over three hundred pounds and proceeded to strip down to bra and panties -- I kid you not -- to show him what he was going to be missing, all the while shrieking unintelligible accusations that defined Springer's particular genre not as a talk show but a scream show . The woman the guest was "moving on" to then appeared, tipping the scales slightly further than girl number one, and Security stepped onto the stage just seconds before an all-out brawl commenced. At that point, the camera panned the audience, made up largely of males between the ages of 21 and 32, who for some unknown reason were chanting "Jerry! Jerry!" while punching their fists into the air.

At that point, I dragged my eyes over to the other screen, where Glenn Beck was holding forth. Quite frankly, I can't say that he was a whole lot better. During his tirade about the fact that Al Gore eats beef (and we care about this because . . .), he used every trick that passes for humor in a group of 13 year old boys. In danger of  ripping the screen off the wall, I switched back to Jerry. His current guests, two women fighting over the same rather unpromising male, were shoving birthday cake into each other's faces and rolling around on the floor, covered in frosting. The audience was particularly appreciative of that one.

Getting a set of acrylic tips never took so long.

On the drive home, I fell deeper into despair over what our society has become. We have children in this very country  going hungry. We have kids still turning to drugs despite our best efforts to educate them. We are embroiled in two wars that don't seem to be getting anybody anywhere -- and yet on the powerful medium of television, we're discussing what Al Gore eats and throwing cake at each other? And you know what depressed me even more than that? It occurred to me that we as Christians aren't always a whole lot more discriminating in our choice of topics either.

Jesus seemed to have that very thing in mind in the Gospel of Mark, chapter 9, verse 33. On the road through Galilee and into Capernaum, the disciples have apparently been having a lively "conversation", as they are wont to do. As Mark tells it, "When he (Jesus)  was safe at home, he asked them, 'What were you discussing on the road?' The silence was deafening -- they had been arguing with one another over who among them was greatest.'"

We can look down our noses at the errant disciples all we want -- I mean, seriously, they were with JESUS and they were wasting time vying for position? But if we hear that question as if it were directed specifically at us -- and what else do we do when we read the Bible? - I'm not sure we have a stronger leg to stand on than they did. What do we as Christians spend time discussing?

                Baptism by "sprinkling" vs. by immersion. 

                Wine vs. grape juice at communion

                Whether the euphemistic "heck" and "darn" qualify as swearing.

                Whether a girl who isn't married should use a tampon (yes, I've been called on the carpet about that)

                Which translation of the Bible is going to ensure your salvation

                And my personal favorite recently: does Satan like it when we celebrate Halloween?

What I'm thinking is that Jesus is asking us to look very closely at what we're putting our energy into when it comes to debating issues. Does what we're getting so worked up about really matter? Is it what Jesus came here to get us to think about and act on? If He were to come among us in the flesh in the midst of one of our impassioned conversations, would he say, "What the Sam Hill are you TALKING about?" If that were to happen, would our silence indeed be deafening? Would we be able to defend the choice we've made to dicker over the trappings rather than delve into that which makes a difference -- and not just talk about it but DO something about it?

Jesus didn't really have to ask the disciples what they were discussing. Just as with us, he already knew. He sat them down and addressed their topic: "So you want first place?  Then take the last place. Be the servant of all." He could say the same to any of us. "Do you want to be right? Then do something for somebody -- something real -- something that will show that person who I am." And what I'm thinking is that haggling over what to serve at the Eucharist and whether to quote the King James or the Message takes us not one step closer to "being a servant of all."

Reading and re-reading that passage brought me out of my funk. I can't get Jerry Springer or Glenn Beck off the air. Even trying wouldn't be worth the time God has given me. But I CAN do something. I can minister to young girls -- as I'm going to do this weekend in Grand Rapids ( want more info? ). I can be the best friend I can be. And wife. And Mom. And member of my church and community. I can grow closer to God.  I can make more of an effort to communicate with my Vietnamese acquaintances at the nail salon -- if only to be able to ask them to change the channel.

That's what I'm thinking, and as always I would love to know what you're thinking. What are you discussing? What's worth talking about and -- more importantly -- worth doing something about? I hope your silence won't be deafening!

Blessings,

Nancy Rue                       

   

ANOTHER JESUS QUESTION: WHO DO YOU SAY I AM?

I have a pretty good idea who you're saying I am at this point. "Nancy Rue? Oh, yeah . . . isn't she that flakey writer who used to do a blog? Wonder whatever happened to her."

Yeah, well, that book for moms I was writing after Alaska turned out to be a way bigger project than I anticipated. I mean, seriously -- when was the last time I had to do footnotes? Non-fiction is more labor intensive than a novel -- you can't just make stuff up. During that process I kept up with the tween and teen blogs because the younger set tends to mutiny if I'm not monitoring them daily. I love them, and don't want to see them trading misinformation! But I really have missed us sharing what we're thinking, and if you're still here, I'm glad. I thought we'd pick up right where we left off when we were discussing the questions Jesus asks in the gospels.

This one, from Matthew 16:13-15, is one of the most thought-provoking. More than that,, our answer to it forms the whole basis for our belief system.

                        "When Jesus arrived at the villages of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, 'What are people saying about who the Son of Man is?'

                        "They replied, 'Some think he is John the Baptizer, some say Elijah, some Jeremiah or one of the other prophets.'

                        "He pressed them, 'And how about you? Who do you say I am?'"

Before we go on to examine the disciples' answer -- and our own -- I'd like to consider the question itself first. I love that Jesus goes right for the most human of inquiries -- "Who are you?" If you're like me, you immediately think of Peter Townsend and The Who, singing the song that became the theme music for C.S.I -- "Who are you? I really wanna know --" accompanied  by an instrumental section that can literally get my husband dancing on the coffee table. All that to say -- we really do wanna know, "What's that person really about?"

Recently I read a biography of Jackie Kennedy (don't ask me why) entitled "Jackie After Jack', which examined her life after November 22, 1963. The range of judgments about who the mysterious Jackie O was ran from, "The nation's inspiration after the death of our beloved president," to a chain-smoking, people-using woman for whom retail therapy was a pathology in itself. I won't even go into the expose's of Jack and Bobby and Lyndon Johnson. I was fascinated not by the "dirt" itself, but by the conflict over whether to completely write them off because they were promiscuous and manipulative and destroyed our image of Camelot in Washington, or try to remember them for the good they did.

I ran into the same thing on a recent trip to St. Augustine, Florida, where the evidence of developer Henry Flagler is everywhere -- churches, hospitals, the site of the college named after him. Without him St. Augustine itself might have shriveled up and died, and much of the Florida east coast may have remained as wilderness (we won't open debate on whether that might not have been a good thing!) He was a generous visionary who helped many, many people and communities. He also partnered with John D. Rockefeller to create Standard Oil and caused the financial ruin of just about every other oil company in America before the turn of the 19th century. People are still arguing over what to do with that. What do we call him -- man  of virtue, or villain?

The same could be said of all of us. If i were to ask, 'Who do you say that Pam is? or Yvonne? Or Greg? Or Mary or Linda or Andrea --- no two people would say the same thing. I was at a funeral yesterday where three different people stood up to eulogize the deceased, and not one of them described the man I lived next door to for 13 years. Who's to say who we are?

And then there's Jesus.

"Who do you say I am?" he asks. And he wants an answer -- and not just AN answer but THE answer, the one Peter gave him: "You're the Christ, the Messiah, the Son of the living God." We may not be able to truly take the measure of another human being -- but we do know who our Lord is. There is no room for debate, no discussion over whether he's saint or sinner, no pointing out of his heroic flaws. We know -- because, as Jesus points out to Peter, "You didn't get that answer out of books or from teachers. My Father in heaven, God himself, let you in on this secret of who I really am."

And then comes what I think is the best part: "And now I''m going to tell you who you are, really are," Jesus says. Do you know how long I have been listening for our Lord to tell me that exact thing? It is the thing that keeps me coming back to the gospels again and again. Keeps me writing and blogging and studying and praying and meditating and determining what I'm thinking.

And what I'm thinking is this: since Jesus is the Son of the living God, then I am who I am made to be as a daughter of that same God. Unlike the Son, I am flawed and marred and scarred and sort of funky most of the time., I don't always know who I am at a given moment -- but I always know who he is, and that makes all the difference.

That's what I'm thinking today. What are you thinking? I would love to hear how each of you would answer that question in your own words - and what that answer means in your understanding of who YOU are. I can't wait to hear. It'll be much better reading than than Jackie, I'm sure!

Blessings,

Nancy Rue

"WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

Can I even tell you how good it feels to be back to blogging with you? After finishing a teen book and going on an Alaskan adventure and mucking out from both of the above -- recovering rhythm is right up there with finding forgotten cash in your pocket.  It's delightful, and I appreciate your patience. I love knowing you're still there.

Now -- where were we? Ah: the questions Jesus asks u s. I bumped into this one in Mark 10:32-45. This is where Jesus has just told his disciples what's going to happen to him in Jerusalem -- and they have just missed the point, as usual (not that I would have done any better, mind you)  He's made it pretty plain, at least from our two thousand years of hindsight, but his followers still speculate on what he REALLY means -- kind of like a bunch of political pundits after a Presidential press conference (don't even get me started on that . . .) James and John, like most of us, have gone off on "How's this going to affect ME?" and Jesus, seeing straight through that, asks them a pointed question: "What is it you want me to do for you?" Now --- I don't know about you, but I personally have an entire LIST at the ready of things I  would like Jesus to do for me. But not fully grasping yet what their Lord was really all about, they basically answered, "We want a piece of the action. How about sharing the glory and the power you've got coming to you when you fulfill the prophecies and everybody knows you're the Messiah." I would LIKE to think my list wouldn't include such an egotistical request -- and I would be wrong. I HAVE prayed that prayer from time to time. You know the one: "Jesus, come on -- I've been good. I'm busting my butt writing for you when I could  (maybe) be making more money writing about sex, drugs and rock n' roll.  Don't I deserve some kudos here, maybe in the form of sainthood or something?"

I digress. The point (finally!) is that Jesus lets the Zebedee Brothers (and us) to give an answer to his question, and then he gives the answer we need to hear. "You want power?" he says. "Then become servants, the way I have. You're thinking glory? Fine. Then love so much you'll die for it." We don't know specifically how the disciples responded, but every time I read that passage, I want to slink away in shame to the nearest soup kitchen -- or at least put a decent meal on our own table for a change. And yet I really don't think Jesus was trying to shame the disciples, or us. I get the feeling he was simply saying, "Look -- this discipleship thing? It's about you asking the honest questions (and saying you want a big piece of the pie is definitely honest) so you can find out what I want -- and then (there's more) living into it until it's what YOU want, too.

 Which brings me to the above picture, taken during our recent trip to Sitka, Alaska. It was nothing short of a blessing that we arrived at our chalet on Silver Bay just as a mother eagle, shown here, was letting her two probably nine-week-old fledglings know that it was time they left the nest and looked for their own place. In this photo, she was literally shrieking at the twins, telling them she was no longer going to be bringing fish. In the days that followed, we saw her catch one and fly over the nest with it, and then land on a nearby branch and chow down on it in front of them. At one point she dive-bombed the nest and knocked one of them out with her sizable talons and sent him flapping into the air. "What do you want?" she seemed to call to them. Their answer was unmistakable: "We want food, dang it!" "Then get out there and find some," she replied. "I've taught you how -- you can do this -- you're an American Bald eagle, for Pete's sake!" By the time we left a week later, they had both ventured a hundred yards from their nest and were showing clear signs of being pretty proud of their sweet selves. (A peripheral lesson for those who are having a hard time getting their   twenty-something offspring out of the house!)

After looking this closely at the passage, I'm thinking I might want to edit that list of things I would tell Jesus I wanted from him if he should ever ask. (A) He DOES ask, every time I stop to pray and (B) all I really need to know is, "How can I serve better? How can I love better? How can I BE better?" I just need to be ready to be there for a while listening to the answer. Like, probably the rest of my life.

That's what I'm thinking. What are YOU thinking? I'd love to hear what you would ask for if (when!) Jesus says, "What do you want from me?"   No experience necessary. Honesty required.

Blessings, Fellow Fledglings --

Nancy Rue

I'M BA-A-A-A-ACK!

Hello, my friends. I thought about looking back to see how long it's been since I posted here on "What I'm Thinking", but I decided that would lead to an anxiety attack, followed by much eating of chocolate and chewing of manicure, and decided against it.  For any of you who are still here after my hiatus to finish a teen novel and take a trip to Alaska, (more details than you'll probably want to hear on that later), know that I've missed chatting with you and am eager to return to our look at the questions Jesus asks us in the Gospels. Meanwhile, I'd love to have a post from you, checking in to say, "I haven't given you up for lost". Just as I'm loving once again drinking out of my own big yellow mug and making my own salad with the weird-things-nobody-else-wants-in-a-salad in it and having internet access again, I'm also jazzed about getting back into my routine with you. Your presence in my life delights me.

Blessings,

Nancy Rue     

QUESTION #1: Bucket List

Last week we (okay, I) decided that it might be interesting to look at the questions Jesus asks US in the Gospels, as opposed to the ones we (all right, I) constantly seem to be asking him.

So I sat down and began with Matthew, looking for the queries. The first one surprised me, because it's sort of a "Well, du-uh" kind of thing. Not terribly thought-provoking, requiring only an eye-rolling, "Ya think" answer.

    'If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness?" (Matthew 5:13) With the follow-up question, "If I make you light-bearers, you don't think I'm going to hide you under a bucket, do you?" (vs. 16)

Now, I have to confess that my first impulse was to dig in my purse for cash. When I was growing up, a similar verse was always said just before they passed the offering plates. "Let your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven." It always made me feel like I was supposed to wave my pledge envelope for all (men . . .) to see before I dropped it in.

Fortunately I, like you, understand the true meaning of that now. I think. It seems pretty obvious. I explain it to groups of kids when I'm speaking as, "Don't become a reclining chair that burps." (I have to give comedienne Roseanne Barr credit for that. Though I'm not a particular fan of hers, I did love it when I heard her say, "You marry the man of your dreams, and he turns into a reclining chair that burps.") You're illuminated by Christ. You can't keep that to yourself. Got it.

So the answer to "If you lose your saltiness, how will people taste godliness?" is "They won't." And in reply to, "You don't think I'm going to hide you under a bucket, do you?" we have to say, "Uh, no." Simple. Which means we have absolutely no excuse not to shine. And that's why I think there's another question in the subtext. "If you know it, then why in the Sam Hill aren't you doing it?" Or --" what bucket are you sitting under?"

It makes for a different kind of Bucket List, doesn't it? I just turned 58 on Monday and I reviewed my fun Bucket List -- you know, the one popularized by the Morgan Freeman/Jack Nicholson movie in which you list the things you want to do before you kick the bucket (i.e. no longer have an earthly light to shine) I was happy to check off "Learn to water ski" (and cross OUT learn to ride a motorcycle . . .) But it now occurs to me to list the buckets I may be hiding under that prevent God's light from shining.

                BUCKET #1 -- I don't have TIME! I've got this deadline . . matter of fact, I ALWAYS have a deadline, and it's usually one I've already gotten an extension on

                BUCKET #2 -- Seriously, I can't do the "Have-you-accepted-Jesus-Christ-as-your-Lord-and-Savior" kind of witnessing. That seems like a spiritual mugging to me.

                BUCKET #3 -- Aren't I doing enough already? If I add one more thing to my plate, I'm going to implode (right after my husband threatens to file commitment papers)

               I could go on, but your eyes are probably starting to glaze over.( Other people's self-flagellation is so tiresome!) What I'm thinking is that Jesus is challenging us here to both appreciate the light we've been given and to throw off the buckets we're cringing under -- but first we have to identify what they are and see how we can crawl from beneath them. I'm working on that.

            BUCKET #1 -- I've begun to observe some of the ancient sacred practices, which actually come naturally to me having always worshiped in a liturgical church. I'm observing fixed-hour prayer and centering prayer and using the treasure of the Book of Common Prayer to read the morning, noon, and evening offices. I'm fully participating in Sabbath in a new way. I'm exploring fasting, although so far I haven't found it to be a particularly spiritual experience! The point is, there is time for all of it. I can't afford NOT to do it,. It would take several posts to describe to you the difference that has made already in my ability to reach out to people who are standing within feet of me.

        BUCKET #2 -- The above has led me to the conclusion that spiritual mugging doesn't work, but that sharing Sabbath, deeply praying, advising girls through my blogs and emails and the books I write IS evangelizing. I love discovering over and over that I am just the witness. I don't have to be the judge, the jury, the prosecutor, and the defense attorney.  I can say and live what I know whenever I'm called to.

        BUCKET #3 -- Shining a light or being a salt lick isn't something to ADD to my to do list. It is supposed to merely be who I am. What I live. How I communicate. I can't write without the light. I can't speak in the dark. It is not WHAT I do -- it's HOW I do it.

In that sense, kicking the bucket(s) is pretty great stuff. I'm jazzed about getting the dang things out of the way so I can get on with the writing and the speaking and the ministering and lthe laughing and the water skiing -- the mentoring and the praying and the Sabbathing -- (though maybe not the fasting.)  How can other people taste the godliness if I lose the saltiness? Can I shine the light with a bucket over my head? Well, du-uh. I'm glad you asked, Jesus.

That's what I'm thinking. What are you thinking? Do you have either kind of Bucket List? Care to share? Oh, and any reflections on fasting? It makes such spiritual sense when I read about it -- and none when I find myself writing snarky emails because I'm starving! Would love to hear -- so come out from under the bucket and shine some light on us.

Blessings,

Nancy Rue

UNEXPECTED DISMOUNTS

There are two kinds of motorcycle riders: those who have dumped their bikes, and those who will.

That's one of the many things I learned in motorcycle school last weekend. I learned that, by quickly falling (literally) into the former group. I didn't expect to -- really. I loved the classroom experience on Friday night -- was the star student, answering all the questions because I'd practically memorized the book beforehand. It didn't even bother me that I was the only female in the class of six students, or that both instructors were men, or that everybody else had motorcycle experience and were just there to get certified so they could have the motorcycle endorsement on their drivers' licenses. It was going to be a piece of cake. "Nancy Drew", as the younger instructor, Tom, nicknamed me (and no, he was not as cute as Dustin my surfing instructor) was going to learn to ride a motorcycle.

So I showed up on Saturday morning at seven a.m.with a great attitude. I had on all the proper gear -- I was focused -- I was ready. I listened intently to everything Tom and Rich told us, and then I properly mounted the "little" Buell Blast I was going to be trained on. It weighs 350 pounds, they told me -- and I scoffed at that. My husband's Harley StreetGlide tips the scales at 800 pounds and I'm not afraid of it. No problem.

Yeah.

Until I couldn't operate the kickstand, which engages the fuel thingie. Didn't know where the on/off switch was. Couldn't find Neutral to save my soul. By the time I fired that mother up -- as they say -- I was in a cold sweat. Seriously. We mounted and dismounted several times, going through FINE-C (Fuel -- Ignition -- Neutral -- Electonic Switch -- Clutch) until we had it down. I had it down -- and a voice in my head was whispering, "What the Sam Hill are you doing?" I'm fine, I told it. As long as I didn't throw up in my helmet.

The next step was to put it in first gear, let out on the clutch, and walk the motorcycle forward until you reached ten miles per hour, and then lift your feet off the ground and ride that sucker to the other side of the parking lot -- approximately 20 feet. I reached my cone at the other side, still power walking. You're going have to go a little faster, they told me. Now, walk it far right and then turn it left and get back in position to go back to your original position.

Huh?

I could NOT turn that thing around. The guy next to me told me how -- and that was when I realized that 350 pounds is nothing to scoff at. When I finally got the dang thing turned in the right direction again, everybody else in the class was already back to the other end waiting in various degrees of patience for me to join them. I could barely breathe at that point. It seemed like a lot of  horsepower was humming between my thighs -- well, at intervals. I forgot to hold in the clutch -- it stalled (in spite of the fact that I have driven a stick shift all my adult life and know the function of the clutch -- except in my view it belongs at your foot, not your hand!) -- then I finally power walked it back to the spot -- I had yet to get up enough speed to actually ride the thing -- and ended up in somebody else's slot and he was heading my way . . . . ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh. Not to mention the fact that my bike required "giving it some throttle" in order to get it running every time I stalled. I was good at giving it throttle. One of my goals was to hear that RYNNN-RYNNN sound when I twisted my wrist. Holy Crow. It freaked me out, which led to my letting go of everything and stalling again. You''e going to do it this time, Tom told me. I took a deep breath, went over it all in my mind, and started again. This time, my feet came off the ground and I was riding --

But -ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh -- how did they say to stop?! I looked down at the controls. Wrong. That meant the wheel wandcered, and when I did manage to stop, the whole thing dumped over with me on it. But not all the way. Tom and I stopped it before we all hit the ground. "Nancy Drew?" he said. "Are you nervous?" Uh -- ya THINK?

Once again, I got my bike turned around and managed to buck my way back to the starting line. Wasn't it break time yet? Try it once more, Tom said. The voice in my head screamed, "Are you serious?" My hands were visibly shaking. My own voice was trembling. I could barely swallow. But I said, "Okay, I can do this."

Uh-huh.

Let out the clutch -- head up -- eyes out -- give it a little gas -- ohmygosh-ohmygosh -- don't turn the handlebars --  *&$#!! I just turned the handelbars - squeeze the brake -- oh, no, that's the throttle --

Yeah -- there was no stopping it that time. I went all the way down with the bike on top of me. Good thing it has a switch that turns it off when it goes over. Good thing I have one, too. The voice was hysterical this time -- "You are NOT getting back on -- ARE YOU!?" I couldn't anyway. Once the bike goes down, it takes an act of God and a wrench to get it running again - some kind of safety feature. They took it off my hands so I could join the group in the debriefing that went on after every exercise. I would have welcomed a barf bag about then.

My husband was watching from afar, and as soon as they called for a break, I was in his arms. The instructors were there, too - not in Jim's arms, but in close proximity, saying, "You've almost got it. Let me work with you while they're on break. You can do this."

"I can also stick a fork in my eye," I told them -- "but I'm not going to."

An hour and fifteen minutes had passed since I mounted a motorcycle to ride it for the first time -- see above photo. In that time I had had a panic attack and taken two unexpected dismounts and, most important, listened to the less than still, and even less than small voice that said, "What are you THINKING?" I "counselled myself out" of the class.

I stayed for the rest of the day and had a ball watching and taking notes for my upcoming book series. I got to be in on every debriefing session, and could have told you what everybody was doing right and wrong because, as Big RIch, instructor #2 told me -- I think too much. I took the written test and scored 100% and wouldn't trade my experience for anything  -- including the road rash and the swollen black and blue knees and calves (now a lovely shade of yellow-green), of which I am very proud. Because what I really came out of it with  was the confidence that I can depend on the inner voice I know as God to keep me from becoming a danger to myself and others. I listened to the questions God was asking of me -- "What are you doing? What are you thinking? Do you want to kill yourself?" and by His grace I answered them correctly.

"You'll be back won't you?" Big Rich asked me when he hugged me good-bye on Saturday afternoon. I answered that one correctly, too.

So here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking that we are always so busy asking God questions -- at least I am! -- that maybe we don't pay enough attention to the questions GOD is asking US. And that is what I'd like to focus on  in the next few weeks - the questions Jesus asks us in the Gospels. I'm thinking the answers we give -- corerect or not -- may bring us closer to that heavenly place on earth we know as God.

That's what I'm thinking? What are you thinking? Sound good to you? I'd love to hear -- as always. Meanwhile, where did I put that ice bag?

Blessings,

Nancy Rue            

PAIR O' DUCKS

I couldn't resist using this picture again because I KNOW this is how I look when I'm saying, "Excuse me -- what?" I've been saying it a lot lately.

Wait -- don't click that little x up there in the corner! This is not going to be another one of those ranting, venting blogs where I go off about stuff Jesus says that's hard or about how people take what he said and use it like a cattle prod. No, actually, I'm starting to like the hard stuff -- well, at least WRESTLING with the hard stuff -- because I think it's put there FOR us to get tangled up in it. Seriously. I mean, why else would there be a pair o'ducks on every page of the Gospel?

That's what I used to think our minister -- the Rev. George Todd -- was saying when he would talk about a paradox in his sermon. Because I had a major crush on the Rev. Todd from about age 7 on, I hung on every word he said, and if he said there was a pair o' ducks in there, then it must be there -- even if I never could find it. There was stuff about chickens, sheep, goats -- but no water fowl. Turns out, though, that he really was right.

Robert Benson -- whom I heard read from his marvelous work in his equally marvelous voice last night -- puts it so well in his book, In Constant Prayer  (which I highly recommend -- click here for more info :

                "God is within us and God is without us. Jesus is with us and Jesus has ascended into heaven. The kingdom has come, and the kingdom is still to come. We have been saved, and we have yet to be judged. (There it is again!) These are the paradoxes of our life with God."

That's not all of them.  One day Jesus says, "He who is not for us is against us," but another day, it's "If you don't straighten out, I'll use these losers over here." One minute it's, "Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden and I will refresh you." The next it's "Don't think I've come to make life cozy. Following me isn't going to be an easy gig for you." Then there's the ever popular "The first shall be last and the last first" -- I mean, HUH?  For Pete's sake,  the entire set of beatitudes is one pair o' ducks after another. It's enough to stand you on your head.

Which is right where I think we should be.

 Whether we actually figure it out is not the point. It's the process of getting in there with God and saying, "Excuse me -- what?!" that gives us something far more important than answers.  Hashing it out with God gets us closer to God, a paradox in itself.

  I think my favorite one goes right there. Matthew 10:39. "Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it." The Rev. George Todd never fully explained that pair o' ducks, but Eugene Peterson, I think, does. He interprets Jesus in The Message this way: "If your first concern is to look after yourself, you'll never find yourself. But if you forget about yourself and look to me, you'll find both yourself and me."

 I can't wrestle with God without getting some of God on me in the process. I feel myself coming closer and closer to God -- into a place I wouldn't be if I just said, "Hey, I don't know -- it's all bigger than me. You want some fries with that?" And Jesus is right (like, when isn't he?) -- while I'm thinking about all this stuff, about, basically, Him, I'm finding me -- beloved, tangled up, sweaty-from-wrestling mess that I am. I love that. 

That's what I'm thinking. What are you thinking? Know any paradoxes I've missed? Got any in your own life that need wrestling to the ground? Would love to hear. Now -- today's REAL pair o' ducks is that I'm off to take Harley lessons this weekend. I should have some fun life lessons to report next week -- hopefully not from traction!

Blessings,

Nancy Rue