A New Pair of Glasses

It happened again.

I put my glasses down somewhere and had no idea where. With my tail between my legs, I entered the store to purchase a new pair. “Don’t tell me, you lost them again,” the store owner said with a grin. Because of me, he drove a Porsche.

As I sat waiting with other customers, I thought about something that happened earlier that morning. I went to the Amazon website to look at the sales report of my recently published novel. It had only been two days since I had checked it and the information had not changed. The ups and downs of sales on particular days was interesting, but the fact was I would never make back the money I spent publishing the book.

I tried to remember all the good that had happened since the book went into the marketplace: I had received notes from readers the likes of which I’ve never received, reviews made the book seem like a bestseller, and I got to spend four weeks discussing the book with a Sunday school class, filling our souls in countless ways.

“Ok, your turn,” said the shop owner. As I got up from my seat, I knew that this new pair of glasses was not the only change I needed in my vision. Whether as writers or lawyers, artists or truck drivers, mothers or fathers we need to be careful about the glasses we wear. There will always be ways to see ourselves that diminish our souls. With effort, however, we can learn to look at our lives with a new set of glasses. The key is to find them and keep them on. `

Burning Faith is a novel about a congregation that loses its church and finds it faith. Available on my website (www.withoutacollar.com) or through Amazon.

Check out the “Burning Faith” mix on Spotify.

Shards in the basket

It was the last Sunday school class, and I decided to go out with a bang. We’d been studying my novel, Burning Faith, and I decided to have the class do what the characters in the novel do when beginning to rebuild the church: think in new ways.

On the table were lumps of clay, ceramic shards, and colorful pens. As we listened to a song, participants were invited to “play” with whichever element they wanted. With clay in their hands, they were asked to consider what it takes to be remolded. Arranging ceramic shards, they were asked to consider the pieces of their lives and how they can become art. The pens were an invitation to draw whatever their heart wanted. The adults around the table became children again, and I marveled at where their souls led them.

As I cleaned up, I was particularly touched by one person’s work. She constructed a basket out of clay and placed shards in it. There was something tender about it, something profound as well. I felt as if I understood what she was trying to say, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

My life is a collection of pieces. There are bright and shiny pieces, and darker ones, as well. There are things of which I am proud, and others of which I’m ashamed, with a many pieces in between. Too often, I’ve tried to pick and choose which pieces I carry, but I’ve slowly come to understand what the wisest among us have said: they all belong.

Into the basket I carry with me every day, I need to tenderly place the joys and sorrows, my accomplishments and failures. I’ll never know when I’ll need to use them to make art. The important thing is to place them in the basket. God will take care of the rest.

1/25/23: Leaving the bleachers

I heard the crowd from far away. There were waves of cheers and laughs, and I’m sure some sobs if I got close enough to hear. But I stayed at a distance. There was something about the place, something about the game and the crowd that intimidated me. I was glad they were assembled, but I didn’t feel the need, nor did I have the desire, to join them.

Then, I had nowhere else to go. I knew the time had come, and I walked toward the stadium. The sounds were familiar, and I recognized a few faces making their way to the game, but when I saw the place and approached the gate, I wanted to turn back. Somewhere deep down, I knew if I entered the arena, I would not be able to return to life as I knew it. With a deep breath, I pushed the gate and entered.

The sounds were louder from inside. I could hear what people were saying. Although I was surprised by the size of the crowd, there were still plenty of seats in the bleachers. I took my place in the back, toward the aisle in case I needed to leave. But I didn’t. I thought about it a few times, but instead of leaving, I moved down and sat closer the others. Still, I was happy in the bleachers. From there, I could look on. Like the others, I could comment on the performance of those on the field, question a call, and lift my arms in disgust when someone made a mistake.

“At least they’re on the field,” someone muttered loud enough for me to hear. I looked around but couldn’t identify who’d said it. The words haunted me. No longer was it satisfying to talk about the game or judge those playing. Eventually, I knew I had to stand and walk onto the field.

“Don’t,” the person next to me said as he grabbed my arm. “It’s much warmer up here.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” added another. “You might get hurt. You might make a fool of yourself.”

It was all true, but I continued down the stairs and onto the field. The players who were grass-stained and sweaty smiled and came over to greet me. A few hugged me and got my clothes dirty. Seeing the look on my face, they laughed. “Just wait,” they exclaimed with a smile as the pushed me onto the field.

After seventeen years in the bleachers, it felt good to get on the field. Yes, I’m bruised and muddy, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I wish I’d done it long ago.

Additional inspiration

https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7-it-is-not-the-critic-who-counts-not-the-man

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hCoAF2G6wQ

The link for last week’s brushstroke was incorrect. Here’s what it should have been:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qsYnhVITf9E