wit, words, & the Word

Saved by the Belle

2012-02-26T18:37:00.000-08:00

My weakness for fairy tales began early, probably because most bedtimes found me nestled beneath the covers, listening to my mom begin, “Once upon a time…” Since I have older siblings, it’s reasonable to assume I first heard these words while still in the womb.

If any book in the Bible reads like a fairy tale, it’s the book of Esther, featuring a powerful king, an orphan who became queen, a grand palace, fabulous wealth, and a happily-ever-after ending. But also like a fairy tale, Esther includes sinister and dangerous elements.

Once upon a time, between 483 and 473 B.C., King Ahasuerus—also called Xerxes—ruled Persia, and the Persian Empire controlled all the lands from India to Egypt. King Ahasuerus needed a new queen, having banished the last one for disobedience. Esther’s second chapter reads like a beauty pageant: Beautiful virgins, collected from Persia’s 127 provinces, traveled to the palace in Susa, where a year of pampering in a spa made them even lovelier and more refined.

One of these virgins was Esther, a Jewish orphan raised by her older cousin Mordecai. Their family has been in Persia for about one hundred years; in 586 B.C. the Babylonians had conquered Jerusalem and expelled the Jews. By Esther’s time, some Jews had returned to Jerusalem, but not Esther’s family. So when the virgins were recruited, probably not voluntarily, Esther—described as lovely in form and features—was recruited also.

Esther arrived in a situation not of her own choosing. She didn’t choose for her homeland to be defeated by a foreign enemy. She didn’t desire her grandparents or parents to be taken captive. She didn’t want to belong to a minority population in a foreign nation. She didn’t opt for her parents to die and leave her an orphan. She didn’t prefer to leave her guardian Mordecai and move into the king’s harem.

At first it sounds fabulous—twelve months of beauty treatments and sumptuous dining. Esther would then spend one night impressing the king, and the next morning enter a different section of the harem. She would change from a candidate into a concubine, never to see the king again, unless he requested her. She would never leave the harem. She could enjoy everything she desired materially, but never have a husband, children, or her own home. Like the other virgins, Esther faced a lifetime of incarceration in a posh prison.

Although Esther’s wedding night made her not a concubine, but the queen, her confinement became even more restrictive. She continued to hide her identity as a Jew in a palace of pagans. She used messengers to communicate with her cousin Mordecai, never speaking face-to-face. If asked, “Would you rather be Queen of Persia, or a wife and mother in a humble dwelling with a godly husband,” what would Esther have chosen? But she never had that choice.

Esther only chose how she would act in her unchosen circumstances. She always sought the wisdom of those who knew more than she, whether her cousin Mordecai, or the eunuch in charge of the harem. And now, as Queen of Persia, Esther had one big choice, the biggest of her life.

An evil and powerful man named Haman had duped King Ahasuerus into granting him authority to annihilate the Jewish population of every province in the Persian Empire. Now, Mordecai implored Esther to approach the king—an illegal action even for the queen—identify herself as a Jew, and plead for the lives of her people. How did Esther respond? Did she select Option A (continued safety in the luxurious palace prison) or Option B (the survival of an entire race of people)?

Leave Esther to her decision, and detour 800 miles west to a seemingly unrelated story. Led by Zerubbabel, some of the Jewish exiles had returned to Jerusalem in 538 B.C., about 45 years before Esther’s dilemma. Zerubabbel, who became the governor under Persian authority, may not have still been living when Esther confronted her agonizing choice, but his son or grandson would have been. Haman’s plan of genocide included all Jews in Persia’s 127 provinces from India to Egypt.

Including Jerusalem.

Including Zerubbabel’s offspring.

Esther chose Option B. She would approach the king, whatever the danger. She anointed that decision with a three-day fast by all the Jews in Susa. King Ahasuerus responded favorably, and the Jews were spared annihilation.

Including Jerusalem’s Jews.

Including Zerubbabel’s offspring.

Why is this noteworthy? Travel with me to another story, this time more than 500 years into Esther’s future. Two followers of a traveling rabbi, Jesus of Galilee, recorded his genealogy in the short biographies they wrote. In Matthew’s first chapter and Luke’s third, the name Zerubbabel appears in Jesus’ genealogy. What’s more, the two branches of Jesus’ lineage—one through David’s son Solomon and the other through David’s son Nathan—mysteriously converged in Zerubbabel, then divided again to lead to Joseph and Mary.

When Esther saved the Jewish people, she saved Zerubbabel's descendants 800 miles away. When she saved them, she saved the messianic line. When she saved the messianic line, she saved Jesus, born over 500 years later.

When she saved Jesus, she saved me.

Finding herself in an unchosen circumstance, Esther sought wisdom outside herself and clung to prayer. As children of God, let us imitate her. We have no idea how far reaching the results of our choices will be.

If it’s poetry, why doesn’t it rhyme?

2012-02-04T18:43:00.000-08:00

The students in my Old Testament Tour 2 class are in for a real treat. I don’t mean food, although there are some holidays coming up: Purim begins March 7 and Passover April 6. Hamentashen first and then charoset. Those are sweet treats. (We won’t mention the parsley dipped in salty water and the horseradish…)

No, the treat the kids will experience this coming week is my unit on Hebrew poetry. By the time we finish, they will have written their own psalms, specifically laments. I may write a new one myself.

Academic information rarely excites anyone, but I was amazed at what I learned when I first prepared this unit on Psalms. Although Psalms are poetry, they don’t rely on rhyme or meter like traditional English language poetry.

Hebrew poetry uses parallelism, where the second line completes or repeats the thought of the first line. Someone—wish I could remember who—said ideas rhyme instead of words.

Psalm 19:1 displays synonymous parallelism—the second line echoes the first line in similar words, or synonyms.

The heavens declare the glory of God;

the skies proclaim the work of his hands. (NIV)

As I wondered why God chose this poetic style for his collaboration with human authors, I pondered the difficulties of translating poetry: Words that rhyme in one language usually don’t rhyme in another. Likewise, a two syllable word in one language may translate into a four syllable word in another. So much for meter or rhythm. To truly appreciate a poem, you have to read it in its original language.

Parallelism avoids these difficulties and translates well. The second line echoes or complete the thought of the first line in any language.

Then it hit me: God never meant Psalms to be an obscure poetry anthology for a tiny nation of Hebrew-speaking people who lived three millennia ago. Instead, he planned that any person who understands any language in any location in any era might access the wealth of encouragement, insight, and inspiration in Psalms.

Now that’s exciting!

Thank you, God, for your incredible book, written in ages past, transcribed and translated by your faithful servants over the centuries. Now it speaks your voice in my mother tongue. Amen.

Slippery

2012-01-22T12:51:00.000-08:00

The sky is blue. The water is inviting. The drinks are cold. The people are as warm as you remember.

The television ads are Jamaican me crazy.

A year ago I was preparing for my third trip to the island. Each time I traveled with high school students and their other chaperones, and we offered our muscle to help churches improve their facilities. We also worshiped in those churches (which included dancing in the aisles), visited orphanages, and most fun of all, took the puppets (including my own Joey Manzoni) to schools and churches.

We saw a side of Jamaica that most tourists don’t. However, we also saw the side advertised on television. Except our cold drinks were some Ting different.

On my first visit in 2003, I even climbed Dunn’s River Falls in Ochos Rios. To get an idea of how unlikely this is, Google it and see tourists climbing through the rushing water. Try to picture me there. It’s true. I have photographs and video to prove it, and this written account, adapted for my blog:

I looked up warily at the 600 foot waterfall. Though our Jamaican guide jumped nimbly over the wet rocks, I doubted I would do as well. Following our guide’s directions, our group of 14 American teenagers and their chaperones each grasped the hand of the person before and behind and began to climb through the chilly rushing water.

The guides had combined our group with a few others. This was especially troubling for one of our girls, who found herself following a portly stranger in a Speedo.

After a few minutes in the waterfall, our boys pranced as sure-footedly as the leader, but I continued to struggle. As I ascended, I grew wetter and colder, while the rocks seemed steeper and more slippery. Our human chain had long ago disintegrated, but my friend Vicky gripped my left hand, and my student Becky clutched my right. In some places they almost carried me up the cascade. With their strong support, the situation became less frightening, and I experienced the thrill of reaching the top.

Pondering this milestone, I’ve concluded that what I face daily feels more threatening than slippery rocks in a waterfall. So I’m thankful for five different Psalms—37, 66, 73, 94, and 121—which tell how God keeps his child’s feet from slipping while climbing through the difficulties and dangers of life. My favorite includes this verse:

When I said, “My foot is slipping,” your love, O Lord, supported me. Psalm 94:18, NIV

If I had been on the NIV translation committee, I would have used "screamed" instead of "said," and added multiple exclamation points after "slipping." Maybe we need a Bible paraphrase for overly emotional people who experience life more intensely. But I digress.

Thanks to Vicky and Becky, I cherish a tangible memory of what God’s supporting love feels like. I thank God for his love that keeps me from crashing on the rocks and for the friends he’s given to share the climb.

Are you smarter than a WCA student?

2012-01-14T20:41:00.000-08:00

I got so busy tweaking my midterm exams that I neglected my blog. So I decided to share some actual exam questions with you. And if some actual students see the questions, it's no big deal. There are hundreds more where these came from.

From my Old Testament Tour 2 exam:

_____ 1. A Hebrew word that means “kinsman-redeemer” or “close relative” is
A) hesed
B) ga’al
C) shophetim
D) torah

_____ 2. In Ruth 2:12, God is pictured as:
A) a burning bush
B) an angry judge
C) a mother bird
D) a shepherd

_____ 3. A Hebrew word that is translated “judges” is
A) hesed.
B) melech.
C) shophetim.
D) torah.

_____ 4. Fat King Eglon of Moab was killed by
A) Samson.
B) Shamgar the Philly Killer.
C) Ehud “Lefty” Ben Gera.
D) Deborah.

_____ 5. Gideon defeated
A) Ammonites.
B) Mennonites.
C) Midianites.
D) Termites.

From my English exam, a question on The Giver by Lois Lowry.

_____ 1. In the Community, this is how a couple gets children:

A. Birthmothers produce three children in three years.

B. Children are created in test tubes.

C. After three years of marriage, a couple may apply to receive children.

D. Your biology teacher will explain.

And a question about fiction terminology:

“Though the rest of us had finished eating thirty minutes earlier, Fred revisited the all-you-can-eat-buffet for the ninth time, and returned to our table balancing plates laden with mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, stuffing, pork chops, meatloaf, hot wings, and a diet Pepsi.”

Is this an example of direct exposition or indirect revelation?

From my Old Testament Tour 1 exam:

_____ 1. If Israel obeyed God’s laws, they would

A. live happily ever after.

B. live long and prosper.

C. have a nice day.

_____ 2. According to Dr. Laura, Israel became a free nation when

A. they received the Ten Commandments.

B. they entered the Promised Land.

C. they escaped slavery in Egypt.

From my Cults & World Religions exam:

1. Muhammad spread Islam by

a. giving alms to the poor.

b. conquering or killing his opponents.

c. teaching the Qur’an to seekers.

d. posting teachings on his blog.

2. What do Wiccans believe about salvation?

a. It is earned by animal and/or human sacrifice to Satan.

b. It is earned by good works and white magick.

c. Since there is no sin, there is no need of salvation.

3. Characterize Brigham Young’s attitude toward African Americans.

a. Loving

b. Racist

c. Tolerant

Are you smarter than a WCA student? Send me your answers and I’ll tell you your grade. Exams start Wednesday.

Bold Approach

2012-01-07T15:27:00.000-08:00

I can explain the flashback.

As a child I had eagerly watched The Wizard of Oz whenever it played on television. Not only that, I had read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and the rest of the books in the Oz series by original author L. Frank Baum and also the ones by Ruth Plumly Thompson. (There’s nothing like Wikipedia to jog the aging memory. It even provides pictures of the original covers, making me warm and fuzzy with a nostalgia overdose.)

Not only that, I wanted to live in Oz. I wanted to be Dorothy. In my mind I was Dorothy. If you doubt my obsession, contact my sister Taffy, the quilt maker. (www.taffyspaloss.blogspot.com) A couple of years ago she presented me with a quilt featuring scenes from the movie: Dorothy walks down the yellow brick road, arms linked with the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Cowardly Lion. Ruby slippers and striped stockings stick out from beneath a house. The green-faced witch gazes into her crystal ball. You get the idea. And the back of the quilt is a field of poppies, the magic poppies that made Dorothy and the Lion sleep.

I was thrilled to receive the quilt. (I would share a photo if I only had a brain.) My inner child would gladly return to Oz in the time it takes to click my heels together.

The Wizard of Oz was my gateway drug into speculative fiction. Oz made is possible for me to subsequently inhabit Middle Earth, the Alpha Quadrant of Star Trek, the Whorl of Firebird by Kathy Tyers, and some random planets a long time ago in a galaxy far away.

But that’s a blog for another day. I wanted to tell you about the flashback.

One Sunday in the Watsontown Baptist Church, I was belting out a Charles Wesley hymn, and sang these lines:

“Bold I approach th’eternal throne
And claim the crown, through Christ, my own.”

Suddenly, without leaving the pew, I was back in Oz. I saw Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, and the Cowardly Lion quaking as they approached a smoking and flashing image of the Great and Powerful Oz on his throne. The wizard was revealed to be a sham who couldn’t grant any of their requests.

I continued singing.

Wesley probably had Hebrews 4:16 in mind when he wrote his hymn. “Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (NKJV). I sure had it in mind as I sang it.

Many believers—and I include myself on occasion—tiptoe nervously to God’s throne like Dorothy and her friends, but God’s Word urges us to approach boldly. Many believers—guilty again—doubt God’s desire or ability to help them, but the Apostle Paul insists God “is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us” (Ephesians 3:20, NIV).

In fiction, Dorothy experienced disappointment when she realized the wizard was a fraud. In real life, believers experience satisfaction when they approach the eternal throne and remember that God is their powerful, forgiving, loving father.

Flying Money

2011-12-31T18:41:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I was surprised to receive a thank-you letter, and amazed to find a check for $50 in the envelope. I pondered the possibilities this little windfall offered: Lunch at a restaurant with my girlfriends, a guilt-free visit to the book section at Ollie’s, or a new wardrobe from the thrift store.

Then I recalled that my friends Lucy and Dan, Bible translators in Mali, Africa, had mentioned a fund to buy grain for nationals affected by drought and famine. Their letter said that $15 would feed an African family for a month. Remembering “God loves a cheerful giver,” (2 Corinthians 9:7) I decided I could cheerfully give $30, and still have $20 left to spend on something fun for myself. I quickly sent a check, since the need was immediate.

And what did I do with the remaining $20? I have no idea what happened to that cash, as I experienced the truth of Proverbs 23:5: “Cast but a glance at riches, and they are gone, for they will surely sprout wings and fly off to the sky like an eagle.” My fun money sprouted wings and flew away in one dollar increments. It saddened me to realize I missed the opportunity to invest more in my Father’s business.

This December, I again witnessed the phenomenon of winged ones (and fives and tens and twenties). Unexpected dough arrived from three different sources, making Christmas shopping easier, and funding a much needed gad-about day with my good friend Robin. But too much of the money flew away while I thought only of my family, my friends, and myself. I forgot to bless those outside my little circle.

I’ve often contemplated the relationship between guilt, gratitude, and giving. I’d like to figure it out and write about it. Maybe there’s a New Year’s resolution in there somewhere.

In the meantime, maybe you’d like to join me in this prayer:

Dear Father, Cultivate in your children a spirit that responds generously to those who hurt and need, and give us wisdom to use all the gifts you give us to the glory of Jesus Christ. Amen.

The Eight Nights of Hanukkah

2011-12-27T09:24:00.000-08:00

The frenzy of Christmas is behind us—unless you count making returns, spending gift cards, and stocking up on wrap and cards for next year’s frenzy. Yesterday in Manhattan I witnessed the removal of the “Believe” banners that had been fluttering above the sidewalk outside Macy’s. Sad.

However, Hanukkah continues one more night. So for my Jewish ancestors, relatives, and friends, and my Gentile students who have lit the menorah and eaten the latkes (but sadly not sufganiyot, maybe next year), I present my Yiddishized version of the Twelve Days of Christmas. (It’s a word if I say it’s a word.)

When I shared this with my friend Israel Cohen, he said it had been done before, and even pointed me to some You Tube renditions. After watching them, I replied, “But not as well.”

So please enjoy the best lyrics (mine) to the Eight Nights of Hanukkah. Please tell me when they appear on You Tube.

On the first night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

A menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the second night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the third night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Three patriarchs

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the fourth night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Four fighting Macabees

Three patriarchs

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the fifth night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Five pieces of gelt

Four fighting Macabees

Three patriarchs

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the sixth night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Six potato latkes

Five pieces of gelt

Four fighting Macabees

Three patriarchs

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the seventh night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Seven sufganiyot

Six potato latkes

Five pieces of gelt

Four fighting Macabees

Three patriarchs

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

On the eighth night of Hanukkah my bubbe gave to me

Eight glowing candles

Seven sufganiyot

Six potato latkes

Five pieces of gelt

Four fighting Macabees

Three patriarchs

Two spinning dreidels

And a menorah from Eretz Yisrael.

Journeys of Christmas 5

2011-12-24T11:04:00.000-08:00

Christmas Day

Thank you for traveling through Advent with me and the participants in the first Noel, none of whom were home for Christmas. I have one more traveler to write about as we reach Christmas Day. Of all the journeys made that long ago year, none spanned a greater distance than the one made by the Messiah himself.

He departed eternity and entered time, trading the expansive light of the universe for the small darkness of his mother’s womb.

He departed an existence of equality with his father God, and entered a life limited by his new human flesh.

He departed sovereignty and entered servanthood.

His journey did not end in a rustic stable in Bethlehem or even on Galilee’s seashore decades later. His journey took him to a skull-shaped hill outside Jerusalem and a rough wooden cross…but it did not end there.

His journey continued into a chill, soundless tomb…but it did not end there.

His journey culminated in a rebirth into resurrection life and a return to the place of highest honor at his father’s side.

Because Jesus made such a journey, we are invited to come home for Christmas, home to God’s family.

Several years ago, I brought a poem to my writers critique group, where a gifted poet gently suggested I should stick to prose. I ignored her, because some poems need to be shared, even if they rhyme.

HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

The Teacher told a tale one day

about a son who runs away.

Sick of home and family rules,

he exits town and hangs with fools,

wastes his cash, then tends a pen

slopping hogs, till one day when

sense returns, he quits the dust,

and pencils a sign, Dad’s House or Bust.

Now here’s the part that really shocked:

The boy gets home, the door’s unlocked,

and Dad comes sprinting down the street,

his errant son to kiss and greet.

Likewise at my Father’s home,

the porch light glows for all to come

and feast on grace and hope and cheer,

because it’s always Christmas here.

Thank you, Jesus, for leaving your father’s home so that we could come home to your father.

Baby's First Christmas

2011-12-22T12:24:00.000-08:00

Carefully unwrapping cherished ornaments, I uncover Baby’s First Christmas 1979. The phrase suggests the family’s newest addition, who may be aged anywhere from infant-in-arms, like my firstborn son Kyle, a month old that year, to toddler-batting-Christmas-balls.

But some of us come to Christmas much later. For me, Baby’s First Christmas occurred my thirteenth year.

My family’s unusual religious heritage included a Jewish mother and a father who was a Jehovah’s Witness, not a recipe for a merry Christmas. After Christmas vacation, my schoolteacher allowed time for each child to tell a gift he or she had received. Already suffering the daily embarrassment of not saluting the American flag—Witnesses don’t—I just couldn’t announce, “We don’t celebrate Christmas.” Instead I lamely lied, “A doll.”

Around my eighth birthday, my family moved, we stopped attending the Kingdom Hall, and Daddy began to soften. Already a softie, Mommy would use any excuse to shower her five children with gifts.

They first flirted with Christmas by taking us the day after to a huge discount store and allowing us to choose toys. The next year we opened presents on Christmas Day. Before long we added a tree, then outside lights and a huge wreath in our picture window. Finally, our friends stood wide-eyed in our huge living room, absorbing the spectacle of packages spreading out from the tree to the walls.

Years of fasting had made us Yuletide gluttons.

In my eleventh year, Mom ironed and neatly packed all of Dad’s shirts, then suggested he go live with his current girlfriend. As divorce negotiations proceeded, money was scarce, and Mom looked for a source of income that wouldn’t involve leaving my five-year-old brother with a sitter. She began working in the nursery of a little church, taking Timmy with her.

After the Baptists learned about her family, they persistently asked, “When are we going to meet your other children, Doris?” She finally succumbed, and one wintry Sunday evening my siblings and I attended our first pot-luck supper, followed by a missionary slide show.

Mr. Roberts had visited Nicaragua with a work team, and now he bribed the skinny seventh-grade visitor, “If you come to my Sunday School class, I’ll give you a Nicaraguan quarter.” By the time he remembered to bring my quarter, I faithfully attended his class on Sunday mornings and Baptist Youth Fellowship on Sunday evenings.

That Easter Mr. Roberts arrived before dawn to transport the Tucker kids to their first sunrise service, followed by breakfast at the pancake house. Driving us to church and youth activities added many miles to the odometer of his green Plymouth, while snacks on the way home subtracted from his wallet.

Later that spring the Plymouth took us to see The Restless Ones, a film produced by the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association. After the film, Taffy, David, and I responded to the invitation. Counselors helped us find the words to pray as we asked Jesus to be our Savior and forgive our sins. A few weeks later Brett could no longer stand being left out, and also prayed to receive Jesus.

The following December, for the first time I looked beyond the holiday and saw the Holy One born in Bethlehem.

On Christmas Eve, Mom and my siblings gathered around the Gulbransen spinet organ (Model G) and sang carols, which I played from my Pointer System book. We read from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, then listened attentively while seventeen-year-old David preached his first sermon to his small congregation of younger brothers and sisters.

More than four decades have passed. Our parents are both gone, as is Mr. Roberts. My siblings and I share Christmas with our own spouses, kids, and grandkids, in five states from New Jersey to California.

Although there’s no commemorative ornament to hang on the tree, in my heart I cherish the forty-fifth anniversary of Baby’s First Christmas.

Advertise the Miracle

2011-12-20T20:32:00.000-08:00

It’s the first night of Hanukkah, and I’m resting with my feet up after spending two and a half hours this evening (before and after a basketball game) making potato latkes from scratch. I made them for my students so that I can celebrate Hanukkah with four different Bible classes tomorrow at school.

The first student who says they taste like hash browns is getting smacked.

My five menorahs are candle-filled and waiting. Actually, we burned a set of candles in each last week when the judges for the decorating contest visited. (We won.) Little wooden dreidls wait, too; the kids have been playing with them since I put them out a few weeks ago. I have more in my closet, and everyone can take one home.

Hanukkah matters to me for a couple of reasons. One is my Jewish heritage. My ancestors on my mom’s side probably observed the holiday for two millennia. (Thatsalotta heritage.) And the other is my Christian heritage. I believe that without Hanukkah, Christmas may not have happened. If the Maccabees had not stopped Antiochus, would Mary and Joseph have been raised as godly Jews, available and worthy to be chosen by God?

I wrote the following thoughts a few years ago. I hope they bless you, even if you don’t have a Jewish bubbe.

Advertise the Miracle

The window may be in a hovel in a village or a condo in a high-rise, a brownstone on a tree-lined city street or a split-level on a landscaped suburban lot. In the window, candle flames dance in an eight-branched candelabra. The illuminated menorah invites curiosity or inspires respect; it initiates ridicule or ignites persecution. Defying consequences, the ancient teaching stands that “the candelabrum should be kindled in a prominently visible place ‘to advertise the miracle’”¹ of Hanukkah.

While the event commemorated in the Hebrew month Kislev occurred in 164 BCE, Hanukkah originated more than a millennium earlier in the fire and smoke of the holy mountain, Sinai. There Moses heard God’s command to construct a traveling house of worship, the Tabernacle, and its furnishings, including a hammered gold lampstand—in Hebrew, menorah. Using pure olive oil, the seven flames of the lampstand were to burn perpetually before Yahweh, who had first spoken to Moses from a burning desert bush.

Nearly 500 years later, King Solomon replaced the humble Tabernacle with a majestic Temple built in Jerusalem on a threshing floor purchased by his father, the shepherd-king, David. In this grand edifice Solomon placed not one, but ten golden lampstands to flame unceasingly before the Lord.

All too soon, mighty empires conquered the Hebrew people. First the Assyrians ravaged their northern kingdom, then the Babylonians crushed their southern kingdom, desolating Jerusalem and destroying the Temple. Later the monarchs of the Persian Empire allowed the Temple to be rebuilt, and the menorah burned in Jerusalem again.

When Alexander the Great defeated the Persian Empire, he acquired the tiny Hebrew nation, and granted the Jews freedom to worship Yahweh and practice their religious laws and traditions. One hundred fifty years later, Antiochus IV was not so kind. Called Epiphanes—the gods’ beloved—he was better known as Epimanes—the Madman.

Antiochus outlawed Judaism in the Jewish homeland, forbidding Torah study, circumcision, and Sabbath observance. He erected altars to Greek gods in Jerusalem’s streets, placed a statue of Zeus in the temple, and slaughtered a pig on the altar.

Five brothers, sons of a priest, rebelled against this outrage, and formed a band of guerrilla fighters. Their slogan—Who is like you among the gods, O Lord?—was in Hebrew an acrostic for maccabee, or hammer. Joined by farmers and peasants, and led by the priest’s son, Judah, they hid in mountain caves by day and destroyed pagan statues and attacked soldiers at night. Within a few years, this small, poorly-armed company defeated 40,000 soldiers and captured Jerusalem.

The Jews reclaimed their Temple, purifying it from the Madman’s desecrations. As they prepared to relight the menorah, they unearthed one jar of oil, marked with the high priest’s seal, enough to sustain the lampstand for one day. Though producing ritually pure oil was a seven-day task, they kindled the flame, and it blazed as evening and morning marked the first day…and the second…and the third…and the fourth….Recalling the ancient miracles of the prophets Elijah and Elisha, one jar of oil multiplied to fuel the holy fire for eight days.

And so each evening of Hanukkah adds another candle’s glow, until eight flames honor the heroic Maccabees and magnify the miracle-working God of the Jews…whatever the consequences. The menorah in the window whispers a message to us today, worshipers of God in an increasingly godless world.

The light of our words and actions may invite curiosity or inspire respect; it may instigate ridicule or incite persecution. Fear cautions us to bolt the door and shutter the window. Faith counsels us to throw open the door, kindle our light and place it in the window.

May we always choose faith and advertise the miracles of God.

¹ Oxford Dictionary of Jewish Religion, New York: Oxford University Press, 1997, page 301.

Journeys of Christmas 4

2011-12-17T08:42:00.000-08:00

Fourth Sunday in Advent

As we reach the last Sunday in Advent, you may be making final (and even frantic) plans to travel. If so, you join the biblical characters who journeyed to participate in the first Christmas.

We’ve already considered the angel Gabriel, Mary, and Bethlehem’s shepherds.

Today we’ll investigate the wise men, or magi, whose voyage is shrouded in mystery. We long for more details than Matthew gives us in his Gospel. Who were the magi? How many traveled to Bethlehem? Where did they come from? How long was their journey? What exactly was the star they followed?

The magi may have been Zoroastrian priests from Persia. They may have been advisers to their government, somewhat like the Old Testament prophet Daniel, who served the rulers of Babylon and Persia. Or perhaps they came from Arabia. They could have trekked from seven hundred to over one thousand miles.

Where history falls short, legends have grown.

From catacomb walls to church mosaics, works of art have depicted as few as two and as many as twelve magi. Three emerged as the favored number because they presented three gifts. Over the years the magi were given names and specific nations of origin, representing Asians, white Europeans, and black Africans. By the tenth century, they had become kings.

Where legend falls short, science steps in.

Theories abound about the identity of the star: Saturn and Jupiter appearing together…or Venus and Jupiter…or a supernova…a comet…a meteor.

We may never know the true identity and origin of these wise men or their guiding star, but we do know their purpose and destination. These mysterious men searched for a king, a newborn king of the Jews. They came to worship him and give him treasures worthy of royalty.

We can excuse their error of first looking for a king in a grand palace in a nation’s capital. We would have done the same. When redirected to nearby Bethlehem, a small village with less than a thousand residents, they rejoiced enthusiastically. In Bethlehem the magi found no splendor, no servants, no semblance of royalty—just a simple dwelling, a young mother, and her son. Recognizing young Jesus as king of the Jews, they bowed with their faces to the ground and worshiped him.

What insight can we glean from the magi’s Christmas journey?

Perhaps the very riddle of their identity and origin reminds us that it doesn’t matter who we are or where we’re from. It only matters that we kneel before Jesus. They compel us to recognize him as king. They were not deceived by the humble surroundings of the Christ child, and we must not be distracted by the extravagant trappings of modern Christmas celebrations.

May the magi’s example guide us to seek Jesus with eagerness and determination and to worship him as lord and king. And may we approach this week as the king’s ambassadors, inviting all to become citizens of his kingdom.

Journeys of Christmas 3

2011-12-10T17:01:00.000-08:00

Third Sunday in Advent

While “there’s no place like home for the holidays,” my Advent blogs invite you to think about the participants in the first Christmas, who were not at home. We have already visited with Gabriel, who delivered God’s messages to Zechariah and Mary, and with Mary, who left the commonplace to become the mother of the Messiah.

Today we meet a group of shepherds. Their mileage was so low that it qualified more as a jaunt than a journey. Camped out with their flocks in the fields near Bethlehem, they reached the baby lying in a manger in record time. To appreciate their journey, consider not the geographical miles, but the spiritual miles. They trekked a short distance on foot, but a much greater distance in mind and heart, in soul and spirit.

The shepherds traveled from the mundane—earning a living—to the meaningful—finding life.

They began their journey in the darkness of the graveyard shift, traveled beneath the brilliance of a glory-lit sky, and arrived in the radiance of the Light of the World.
They began their journey terrified at the appearance of an angel, but at their journey’s end, they testified about the appearance of the savior.
They hurried to Bethlehem wondering, but returned from Bethlehem worshiping.

The shepherds were uniquely qualified to walk this road. Think about their location, less than ten miles from the Temple in Jerusalem, where every day priests sacrificed lambs in rituals to pay for sins. These shepherds provided those lambs. At the manger, they encountered the one who would years later be called the “Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. “ (John 1:29)

As shepherds, they knew what it was like to risk life and limb protecting the flock and finding lost sheep. At the manger, they encountered the one who would years later say, “I am the good shepherd. The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep.” (John 10:11)

At the manger, they found both the Lamb of God and the good shepherd swaddled in the flesh of an hours-old infant. Perhaps God included these men in Christ’s birth because of their unique foreshadowing of Christ’s death.

What encouragement can we glean from the Christmas journey of the shepherds?

Of all the participants in the first Christmas, we identify best with these men. We find Gabriel too other-worldly, the magi too wealthy and mysterious. We realize that Mary was given a once-in-eternity opportunity we will never have. But the shepherds, ordinary working folk like us, discovered that God “is not far from each one of us.” (Acts 17:27)

Because God meets us more than halfway, it is only a short sprint into his arms.
May the shepherds’ example guide us into the fold of the good shepherd, and from that sheltered place, into the wilderness to seek his lost sheep.

What do you say?

2011-12-08T18:43:00.000-08:00

I’ve been following Fox News’s coverage of the War on Christmas and occasionally I catch some comments from the other guys mocking Fox News. Let me say right up front that I am a BIG Fox News fan (though I don’t understand why their male newscasters show only their heads and hands while most of their female newscasters flash thighs and cleavage. A blog for another day, I promise.) And I pretty much despise Stewart and Colbert. However, I laughed out loud at Jon Stewart’s take on the War on Christmas…which I saw on Fox’s O’Reilly Factor. (Irony?)

There IS a war on Christmas and it’s been going on since Herod the (not so) Great attempted to kill Jesus by murdering Bethlehem’s baby boys and toddlers. But if the war on Christmas has been reduced to Santa and acceptable greetings and what we call trees, I think my side might have already lost.

In 2008, I wrote an essay which appeared in the Williamsport Sun-Gazette Christmas Day issue. I thought I’d share it with you, since we seem to be stuck in the same war. Here it is:

We Say Merry Christmas. Bill O’Reilly, host of the O’Reilly Factor radio and television programs, offers this motto, flanked by two fleurs de lis, on a red bumper sticker, so that Factor fans (who spend at least $19.95 in the online store) can “Show your support for Christmas.”

The significance of the fleurs de lis escapes me. Am I showing my support for New Orleans—or France—as well?

O’Reilly’s bumper sticker strikes back at the nonspecific Season’s Greetings and Happy Holidays, phrases foisted upon us to pretend that this great big fuss we’re making every December has nothing to do with the birth of an infant twenty centuries ago.

Several years ago my own frustration inspired the writing of this Politically Correct Greeting:

I’m sending you Season’s Greetings,

A month of generic good cheer.

Avoid all mention of Jesus

And have a Happy New Year.

Don’t misunderstand. I love Christmas, and I’m somewhat fond of Mr. O’Reilly, too. I just don’t think he takes it far enough. We’re talking incarnation here, God born in human flesh, and all he can think of in support of this holy day is We Say Merry Christmas?

I would rather take my cue from the original participants in the events that Christmas commemorates.

An angel said, “He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High,” and later, “give him the name Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins.”

A close relative said, “Blessed is the child you will bear.”

The child’s mother said, “My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior.”

A lot of angels said, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace.”

An old prophet said, “My eyes have seen your salvation.”

Eastern travelers said, “Where is the one who has been born king of the Jews? We saw his star in the east and have come to worship him.”

Even lines from carols would make better bumper stickers: Joy to the world, the Lord is come…Glory to the newborn king…O come let us adore him…Go tell it on the mountain that Jesus Christ is born.

And all we say is Merry Christmas?

I guess it’s a start.

Journeys of Christmas 2

2011-12-03T13:30:00.000-08:00

Second Sunday in Advent

“There’s no place like home for the holidays” is a popular song and sentiment, but I discovered that the participants in the first Christmas were all far from home. During my Advent blogs, I will tell about some of these long-ago travelers. Maybe they will teach us something about our own journeys.

Our first traveler was Gabriel, the angel who journeyed to deliver God’s messages to Zechariah and to Mary. Gabriel’s example encourages us to spend time in the presence of God this Advent season.

Our second traveler shares her ancient name with a brave Hebrew woman. The original Miriam defied the command of a cruel tyrant and saved the life of her infant brother Moses, who was later used by God to deliver the Hebrew people from Egyptian slavery. The first century Miriam, young Mary of Nazareth, was also entrusted with the life of an infant, who would become the redeemer Moses foreshadowed.

Gabriel’s announcement to Mary, that she would be the mother of the Son of God, caused the young woman to begin a series of journeys. First, she traveled to the hills of Judea to visit her relative Elizabeth, joyfully pregnant with John. Then, Mary headed back to Nazareth in Galilee, thirdly, to Bethlehem in Judea, where she gave birth. Then she escaped to Egypt, fleeing from Herod’s plot to kill her son. Finally, when circumstances became safer, she returned to Nazareth. The possible total of seven hundred miles may not seem challenging in our age of autos and airplanes, until we remember that Mary trekked on foot or on donkey, first pregnant, then with a toddler in tow.

Further even than the geographical mileage was the distance from the commonplace life of a first century Jewish wife and mother, which Mary had expected, to the extraordinary calling to mother God’s son. Mary journeyed from being a naïve teenager to becoming a sober woman who waited for a sword to pierce her own soul, as the old prophet Simeon warned her. (Luke 2:35)

How did Mary feel years later, seeing her son cheered and loved by thousands…and hated by a powerful few? While other women her age looked after grandchildren, Mary looked upon her son, executed like a dangerous criminal on a Roman cross.

Only God himself shared the intensity of Mary’s pain, because he, too, gave his son, “that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.” (John 3:16)

Mary is last mentioned by name in the first chapter of Acts, where she waited, praying, in a large upper room with her younger sons, the women disciples, and the eleven apostles. Fifty days after watching her son’s lifeless body lowered from the cross, Mary was filled with his life-giving Holy Spirit.

What insight can we glean from Mary’s Christmas journeys? Mary’s first reaction to Gabriel’s visit was to feel greatly troubled, but her final response was to say, “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” (Luke 1:38) Perhaps Mary tells us to agree with God, even if we don’t fully understand his actions.

After she gave birth in a less than ideal location, and received a middle-of-the-night visit from shepherds, the Gospel tells us that “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.” (Luke 2:19) Perhaps by treasuring and pondering, Mary was able to live in obedience to God’s sometimes painful plans.

May Mary’s example guide us to that quiet place where we treasure and ponder the works and promises of God, and from that quiet place to the journey God has for us.

Journeys of Christmas

2011-11-26T11:57:00.000-08:00

First Sunday in Advent

“There’s no place like home for the holidays,” Perry Como croons on the car radio. The song, still popular after fifty years, tells about a man from Tennessee traveling north to Pennsylvania, while Pennsylvanians head south. “From Atlantic to Pacific, gee, the traffic is terrific,” because each person travels to the place he considers home. “If you want to be happy in a million ways,” the song concludes—and many of us wistfully agree—“For the holidays, you can’t beat home, sweet home.”

Ironically, none of the participants in the biblical narratives spent the first Christmas in the familiar comforts of home. Each one journeyed away from home to create the events we celebrate each December. During my Advent blogs, I’m going to write about some of these long-ago travelers. Maybe they will teach us something about our own journeys.

The first traveler’s name means “strong man of God,” though he wasn’t a man at all. Gabriel was an angel, one of only two angels whose names are recorded in all of the Hebrew and Christian scriptures.

Gabriel traveled from the presence of God to the inner sanctuary of the temple in Jerusalem, where an old priest burned incense. Gabriel startled Zechariah, who never expected to meet God’s messenger in God’s house. The angel announced good news to the old man: His wife Elizabeth would finally give him a son, and this son would proclaim to the people of Israel the coming of the Messiah.

When Zechariah expressed doubt, the angel replied, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news.”

Half a year later, God sent Gabriel on a second journey, this time to Nazareth, a town in Israel’s Galilee region. There he delivered a greeting—and a prophecy—to a young woman named Mary. God had chosen her to be the mother of the Son of God, the heir to King David’s throne. “Nothing is impossible with God,” Gabriel assured Mary, then left her. He is never mentioned in scripture again.

What insight can we glean from Gabriel’s Christmas journeys? Gabriel stood in the presence of God as a servant stands in the presence of his master, as a subject stands in the presence of his king. God revealed his plans and entrusted delivery of his messages to the one who stood in his presence.

Perhaps Gabriel tells us to step away from the busy-ness of the Christmas season and stand in the presence of God. “So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most.” Hebrews 4:16, New Living Translation

May Gabriel’s example lead us into God’s presence and from God’s presence to the journey God has for us. Amen.

Thanksgiving Litany or Random Rambling Thoughts of Thanks

2011-11-24T08:38:00.000-08:00

I’m thankful for elastic-waist pants, no matter what Stacy and Clinton (What Not to Wear) think. A fifteen pound turkey is roasting in the oven, and he will be joined by a plethora of side dishes. In these pants, I will be ready.

I’m thankful my salary covers health insurance for my family (though little else). I’m thankful my talented husband’s multiple jobs cover the rest, making it possible for us to live a comfortable life.

I’m thankful my son Curt baked two pumpkin pies at midnight, after I pointed out the oven would be turkey-filled and unavailable during daylight hours.

I’m thankful for Watsontown Christian Academy, my home away from home, location of my ministry and gainful employment. I’m thankful for my colleagues—sisters in Christ and a few interesting brothers—and my students. I’m thankful for our intersecting lives, what we give and receive from each other.

I’m thankful for creative students who turn a simple grammar assignment into an occasion to LOL and almost ROFL. Without his permission (or name), I offer a few sentences:

The cat leaped gracefully through the air and into the closed door.
Steve’s pet was frightened when he slowly donned the hog dot helmet.
We’ve got to rid the world of loud annoying people and people who keep their cats outside the house on cold nights.

I’m thankful for more sisters and brothers at Watsontown Baptist Church, Home of Real Prayer Support. We may not be the best chorus singers, but boy can we pray.

I’m thankful for my writing friends and critique partners at West Branch Christian Writers and St. Davids Christian Writers Association. We support, encourage, and challenge each other. We catch each other’s errors before they’re out there for the reading public to see. We rejoice (sometimes with a teensy weensy bit of envy) at each other’s success. I’m thankful—and proud—that Sue has become a published author with a devotional coming in the Spring 2012 edition of The Secret Place.

I’m thankful for my home, flood zone location and all. It belongs to me, Gene, and Sovereign Bank. It’s spacious and (almost) warm, and I can paint the walls weird colors if I want. Only another former parsonage dweller could be this thankful.

I’m thankful in spite of

missing my far away family. My brothers live in Ohio, Michigan, and California, and my sister in New Jersey. I wish we all lived on the same street and could eat our holiday meals together and visit over coffee every day. My oldest son moved to Hollywood and makes movie trailers. My mom moved to Heaven decades ago.
disappointments, failures, challenges, and daily drama—NOT the kind on television.

I’m thankful for God’s sense of humor. He took the offspring of a Jewish mother and a lapsed Jehovah’s Witness father, brought her to a Baptist church and faith in Jesus Christ, and eventually gave her the privilege of teaching high school students how to read and understand the Jewish and Christian scriptures. Truth IS stranger than fiction and a lot more fun.

I’m thankful to be reminded, as I was yesterday morning in a Louie Giglio DVD, that Jesus holds me together. For those of you who know me well and think I am falling apart, just know that I would be completely disintegrated by now without Jesus. I look back at the years since 1966, when Jesus brought me into God’s family, and recognize that Jesus held me together through everything. Giglio quoted Colossians 1; I’ve included a portion of that chapter below.

Christ Holds It All Together

^15-18We look at this Son and see the God who cannot be seen. We look at this Son and see God's original purpose in everything created. For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible, rank after rank after rank of angels—everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment. And when it comes to the church, he organizes and holds it together, like a head does a body.

^18-20He was supreme in the beginning and—leading the resurrection parade—he is supreme in the end. From beginning to end he's there, towering far above everything, everyone. So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. Not only that, but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe—people and things, animals and atoms—get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, all because of his death, his blood that poured down from the cross.

^21-23You yourselves are a case study of what he does. At one time you all had your backs turned to God, thinking rebellious thoughts of him, giving him trouble every chance you got. But now, by giving himself completely at the Cross, actually dying for you, Christ brought you over to God's side and put your lives together, whole and holy in his presence. You don't walk away from a gift like that! You stay grounded and steady in that bond of trust, constantly tuned in to the Message, careful not to be distracted or diverted. There is no other Message—just this one. Every creature under heaven gets this same Message. I, Paul, am a messenger of this Message. (From The Message translation of the Bible, courtesy of www.biblegateway.com)

I’m thankful you’ve read through all the rambling to the random end. I'm thankful for lots more, but I should check on the turkey. Please share what you’re thankful for.

Happiest Thanksgiving.

The Elusive Squeegee

2011-11-10T17:59:00.000-08:00

I believe I may have mentioned a few times (okay 10 or 20) that I’m attempting to write a 50,000 word novel in November. Last blog post brought you recycled poetry; this one will give you recycled humor.

Eleven years have passed since I wrote this 99% true account. Most mornings it is still true.

The Elusive Squeegee

PLACE: Anytown, Pennsylvania

TIME: Any Autumn weekday, ten minutes late

Juggling bookbag, purse, and travel mug of coffee, and followed by a grumpy ten year old, I stumble through the early morning fog toward my rusty, trusty Mazda. If we pull onto the northbound route within thirty seconds, we might arrive at his school and my workplace on time.

No! The windows are covered with dew.

I stash my burdens in the trunk and begin wiping down the side and rear windows with paper towels. “Help me, Ten! You do your side and we might get out of here before noon.” Alas, I have no garage, and my car is dew-covered every morning. If only I had a squeegee, I could zip that water off in seconds, and not deal with cold, soggy paper towels.

I am loathe to transfer the shower squeegee to the car. If I am ever not late, I like to use it on the shower walls. (Hey, it could happen.) How hard could it be to find another squeegee, anyway?

Usually the need to hunt squeegee only hits me as I dry the car windows. One evening my brain kicks into gear while in the grocery store, which offers a variety of brooms, mops and sponges, but no squeegees.

Picking up a prescription on another occasion, I search the pharmacy aisles. Shelves overflow with Christmas decorations in mid-October, but no squeegees.

My husband checks the auto department of America’s favorite discount store, but he finds no squeegees. Oh well, men can’t shop. He should have looked in the cleaning supplies section.

Several days later, while Ten picks through ghoulish Halloween accessories, I stalk the squeegee. I should have known a second rate store like this wouldn’t carry one. How about the third rate store farther down, where everything costs a dollar? If I want to blot the dew with a linen 2002 calendar, I am in luck.

Ten and I proceed to America’s favorite discount store, to accomplish what his dad could not. And for a very good reason: They don’t have any. I could possibly blow dry the windows with any one of a dozen models of hair dryers, some of which doubtless have auto adapters.

Like Captain Ahab, I am obsessed. The squeegee has become my Moby Dick.

After a Saturday morning walk to the post office, I enter an independently owned hardware store.

A clerk rushes over. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I hope so. I am Captain Brosius, and I hunt the elusive squeegee.”

“Down that aisle and to your right,” another cheerful clerk answers. The first clerk follows me to make sure I reach my long-sought destination.

I have died and gone to squeegee heaven. There are car-sized squeegees, truck-sized squeegees, RV-sized squeegees, armored assault vehicle-sized squeegees, and a squeegee I could use to clean cosmic goo off a spaceship.

I tenderly carry my treasure home in a brown paper bag, eagerly anticipating the new work week.

PLACE: Anytown, Pennsylvania

TIME: Monday morning, ten minutes late

Juggling bookbag, purse, and coffee, and followed by a shivering ten year old, I stumble through the frigid early morning air. The Mazda is covered with frost.

Does anyone know where I can buy a good ice scraper?

Recycled Poetry

2011-11-06T15:37:00.000-08:00

Since I’ve signed up for nanowrimo, November is not a good month to blog. I should be writing my future best-selling novel. I'm trying. Actually, I should be participating in the never-ending cycle of lesson plans, teaching, testing, and grading. And I am.

I also should be working on Advent readings for my church. And I will. I was waiting for an original idea, and it came this morning while listening to my pastor pray.

So as not to totally ignore my myriad blog followers (all 19 of you, I love you!) I have decided to recycle poetry. I have found poetry inspiring to write and impossible to sell. I exaggerate, since I have actually been paid for 2 or 3 poems; believe me not enough to report to the IRS.

I remembered this poem when a young friend and former student posted the famous Serenity Prayer on his Facebook status. Disagreement exists about the origin of the prayer; SKdesigns.com attributes it to Reinhold Niebuhr, and includes a longer verse after the one that’s so familiar. Niebuhr’s version begins:

God, give us grace to accept with serenity
the things that cannot be changed,
Courage to change the things
which should be changed,
and the Wisdom to distinguish
the one from the other.

Here is my take on the prayer. Maybe it applies to all the things that I want to do and have to do in November.

God grant me sweet serenity

What I can’t change to receive

With contentment from my Father

And in his goodness believe.

God grant me compelling courage

To change what I can’t abide,

Striving to serve God’s family,

His Word and Spirit my guide.

God grant me unwav’ring wisdom

To rightly discern the two

In prayer first, and then in living

As the Savior did, to do.

Nanowrimo is upon us!

2011-10-29T15:09:00.000-07:00

That’s “thirty days and nights of literary abandon!” as self-described on the National Novel Writing Month website. (www.nanowrimo.org) As an experienced participant of several years, I can think of a few other things that will be abandoned in many Wrimers’ abodes: home cooked meals, clean laundry, clean anything.

Students might abandon homework and studying. (I could name names.) Teachers might abandon lesson plans and grading. After all, to qualify as a winner, we have to write a 50,000 word novel by November 30—not necessarily a good novel, just so long as it’s 50,000 words. And what do we win?

A certificate that we have to print out ourselves with our own ink on our own paper.

I have signed up. With the WCA marking period ending Tuesday, I’m catching up on grading and entering grades this weekend. Hopefully I will be ready to write 1,666.666666 words a day for 30 days. Or I could round up to 1,667 and get rid of all those demonic looking sixes. I’m not writing a horror story.

I thought I might entertain (or bore) you with a list of my previous attempts and sole success.

Meatloaf for Three burned out at 5,780 words. It was about a pastor whose wife left him and their daughters. He in turn quits the ministry and opens a diner. Not as interesting as I had imagined, especially to the author.

Death by Pumpkin Cheesecake, wherein a dead body is found in the church kitchen, met its demise by word 1,642, none of which I can remember writing as I look at the Word document.

The Case of the Lethal Lunch was closed at word 3,073 when I realized I didn’t really care who was poisoning the meatloaf in the cafeteria at a small private academy. By now I realize I am not a mystery writer.

Thirty Days Hath September, featuring schoolteacher Daisy Barnes filling her new post at a boarding school at the Jersey shore, achieved 24,601 words, and some post Nano editing. I have not permanently abandoned you, Daisy. I will return.

The Gadarene’s Tunic wrapped at 5,342 words, possibly the best I have ever written. (It’s so good, even I cry when I read it.) It tells the story of the man the Gospel writers called Legion. I started with his childhood, telling how the demons possessed him, and got only slightly past the Gospel accounts. I have not permanently abandoned Tertios, either.

Bride Price surpassed 50,000; the exact number of words changes as I edit and revise it. Intensive critique at St. Davids Christian Writers Conference last June both improved the manuscript and also let me know I was on the right track. I wrote Bride Price because I think everybody misunderstands King David’s first wife and gives her a bad rap. Everybody except me, that is. Yes, I know books about Michal are out there. My book about Meechal is edgier. Maybe too edgy for a Christian publisher. We’ll see. (I hope.)

And that brings me to Prisoner in the Palace, which will continue where Bride Price ended, Meechal being reclaimed from her second husband by her first husband.

Word count is at zero until Tuesday, November 1. I will not be starting at midnight like Linda, a true Nano warrior. I have to be awake to give a cumulative vocabulary test at 8:30 a.m.