AI is older than it seems

 I confess to using AI (artificial intelligence) and finding it helpful. I’m at a basic level, using only the free ChatGPT and I have no ambitions of getting more complex. I’m nervous about the future and the rumors I hear of this technology “taking over the world,” although that sounds like exaggeration. But it’s been helpful in finding out more about my medical condition, possible healthy diets, and which publications are accepting poetry submissions. Stuff like that.

But I get angry when it reads my email and tells me how to answer, when it offers to rewrite my blog and make it funnier, when it intimates that it’s a better poet than I am.

Recently when I asked AI to solve a computer problem, it comforted me in my distress, promising that there was a solution and I just needed to have faith. It sounded like a pastor. A human pastor. I found myself feeling better and then had to remind myself that it was a machine. I’m resisting having a personal relationship with AI. 

I’m committed to not using AI in my writing. I won’t ask it to improve a blog reflection or edit a poem. Even if I find myself rewriting a messy first draft numerous times, it’s my creativity at stake. For me, it’s an issue of integrity and honesty.

Recently I was reminded that something artificial offering to do my work for me is not a new phenomenon. It didn’t begin with AI. The temptation to find a substitute for the hard labor of personal creativity is older than I am, whether it’s preaching someone else’s sermon, having someone ghost-write a book for me, cheating on a term paper, or, in general, taking credit for work someone else did.

The following example is 30-years-old, coming from the time I was studying in seminary. It involves writing letters. Most of us are old enough to remember this now largely forgotten art. Even though letter-writing is almost obsolete, this story serves as an example of the same thing that AI offers us today.

The envelope pricked my curiosity. “Cut your letter-writing task down to size,” it announced. “A new tool for busy pastors!” The glossy full-color brochure showed a firm masculine hand signing a letter, the whole scene bathed in a warm light. It looked promising.

I’m a sucker for books or courses dedicated to helping people write. I know that putting the right words on paper or in the computer is hard work, and anything that helps me understand the process and move with it, instead of against it, I appreciate. This brochure promised to link ministry with writing and make it all easier—a good idea.

But as I read through the brochure and accompanying propaganda, my curiosity gradually gave way to incredulity.

This Christian communications company was offering a set of “Over 300 letters!” in a “leather-like” binder, so that the busy pastor no longer need “waste valuable time and energy agonizing over words and phrases.” Each ready-to-use letter was guaranteed to be “sensitive, thoughtful and effective.” Occasional alternative phrases would allow the pastor to pick the one “that sounds most like you.”

The collection of canned letters covered “virtually every situation you can face in the church.” Rather than stumble under the burdens of ministry, the brochure promised that, “You’ll breeze through situations like these and hundreds more!” and proceeded to list a sampling. Some of the situations the pastor would be able to breeze through included

--kindly asking a neighbor not to park in the church parking lot
--supporting members going through a separation or divorce  
--declining a job applicant for a staff position
--informing a contributor that their check was returned by the bank for insufficient funds
--saying good-bye to a congregation.

A sample letter included with the brochure was on the topic, “Condolence on Death of a Newborn.” “Dear Name,” it began. “While I tried to be of comfort to you at the funeral, I now feel impelled to add a few more personal words….”

At that point I felt impelled to stop reading. I was both sad and angry.

In the following weeks, the brochure continued to trouble me.

It may be that behind that product were some well-meaning, creative people who really wanted to help ministers wade through the clutter, details, and accumulation of things that never get done. Communications to church members are probably among those things. And writing does not come easily or naturally to most people.

The idea appeals to some of our middle-class cultural values. The words “fast,” “effective,” “risk-free,” “fully satisfied,” “in a fraction of the time,” and “productive” illustrate the value of minimum effort for maximum output—so the pastor can spend her time in more important ways. Certainly a minister of God has better things to do than “agonize over words and phrases.”

The words “personal” and “sensitive” also crop up to demonstrate other values, values with which any Christian should agree. The problem is, of course, that there is nothing genuinely personal, thoughtful, or sensitive about these letters. There’s nothing genuine about them at all. Rather they are carefully crafted to give the appearance of being personal and caring, so that the congregation will “deeply appreciate and remember for years” this ministry.

I’m bothered by two things. The first is the focus on appearance and impression. We live in a culture that builds a large share of its economy on products that promise to make us seem tanner, smoother, slimmer, blonder, wiser, wittier, and more in control of our lives than we really are. As the church in the midst of this culture, we also struggle with the temptation to compromise integrity, to settle for a form of godliness that denies its power. Effective communication and efficiency in meeting goals can crowd out compassion or integrity. It’s as though it’s more important to convey a strong impression of love rather than make the effort to walk and talk and laugh and cry with people, to “rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep.”

I’m also bothered by the assumption that “agonizing over words and phrases” is a waste of time. Pain is not efficient. Struggling to identify with hurting people, to help bear their burdens can be messy. It takes time. Words don’t always flow when we’re crying.

But what other kind of words dare we offer a young couple who has lost a child?

And now AI is offering us the same “service.”

God help us be wise in choosing what is useful and rejecting what compromises integrity and compassion.

 

[ Parts of this reflection first appeared in “Quaker Life,” April 1998, and will be part of a soon-to-be-published collection of essays called “The Richest Kid on the Block.”]

A change of pace and a new book

 I have two announcements. 1) As part of my endeavor to simplify my life and lighten the load, I have decided to post to this blog every other week. I’ve been posting weekly for the last four years. I do it with a sense of ministry and joy, and I’m learning as I go. My purpose has been to explore ways of aging with courage and humor, and exploration is the right word. I’m finding the path even as I walk it. And I’ve been doing it with you. That will continue. I hope you’ll stick with me.

By the way, I invite you to check out my website, if you haven’t already (nancyjthomas.com). You can go directly to my blogs from there. The advantage is that it’s easier to comment if you should wish to. I invite comments and would love to have conversations around the subject of each blog. Think about it.

2) This is the exciting announcement. I have a new poetry book coming out later this year. It’s called Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. The poems center on the life, work, and words of Jesus. I’ve been working on some of them for years. Others are new.

Several years ago, I took on the challenge of meditating, praying, and writing poetry through all the books of the Bible. It hasn’t been an academic exercise and I certainly haven’t had publication in mind. It’s a devotional practice, a form of prayer.

Let me quote from the introduction to the book to give you some of its flavor:

This book of poems begins with a brief prophetic prologue from Isaiah, then covers the words and experiences of Jesus in the four Gospels and the first chapter of Acts. A short epilogue ends in Revelation. . . .

Essentially, the poems are my conversations with God based on Scripture. God graciously give me permission to say anything, get mad with him at times, ask any questions, take him to task, worship him, be amazed. Nothing offends. God can take it. Often the poem ends with an unanswered question and that’s OK. I can wait. We have a back-and-forth relationship. In addition, this way of reading, praying, and writing through the Bible is tremendous fun. . . .

As I ponder the whole story of Jesus, from the Old Testament prophecies, through his time in our neighborhood, and on to end of the story (and its real beginning), I am amazed and blessed. . . . I pray you will experience the same.

Right now I have the galley proofs in hand. That means the publisher (Wipf & Stock) has already type-set the book. I now get to do one last proofreading and then it’s ready to print.

Previously, before sending the completed manuscript to the publisher, I had a professional proofreader meticulously go over it. My friend, Susan Fawver, did the job beautifully, so my task now is not so hard. Nonetheless I’m finding some things in the type-setting to correct. There’s always a chance a typo will sneak in. So I’m reading it slowly out loud, not for the content, but for the nitty-gritty small stuff—consistency, matching the titles in the book to the titles in the table of contents, checking page numbers, re-reading all the Bible references, and so on. It’s hard work, but I’m motivated knowing that the end is in sight and I’ll be able to share the book with the world. With you.

In many ways, the whole process—from the conception of the idea, experiencing the initial excitement, then on to the hard labor—is like giving birth. At this point I’m anxious for the whole thing to be over. I can’t wait to introduce my new child to you.

Celebrating libraries and poetry!

This is National Library Week and I, for one, am celebrating. Established in 1958 by the American Library Association, this is a time to visit, celebrate, and support the contribution libraries make to children, families, serious scholars, and book-lovers of all stripes.

I love libraries. In fact, browsing is my favorite sport. The public library is my favorite civic organization. I love it even better than the executive branch of government, the Supreme Court, and the national military all combined. Imagine that!

As if that were not enough, April is National Poetry Month. Did you know that? Organized in 1996 by the Academy of American Poets, it aims to increase appreciation of poetry throughout society.

Actually, I didn’t know about National Poetry Month until I received an invitation from George Fox University to participate in an event to celebrate poetry, local poets in particular. We met in the university library (how appropriate!), in a large space that looked more like a lounge than a library. Very homey. I was one of three local poets invited to discuss poetry as part of a panel and then to read some of our poems. After that, an open mic encouraged people in the audience to come up and read one of their own poems.

Walking to the event, I told Hal I wasn’t sure if many people would show up. I said that even if we shared with ten people, it would be worth it. The space was set up for about 50 people, and I was surprised when the sponsors had to scrounge to bring in more chairs to accommodate the crowd.

We had such fun! For the panel part, the facilitator had a list of five questions and each of us three poets were to respond in turn. The first question was, “What was your first introduction to poetry?” That was easy—my mother and Mother Goose! And when I was two-years-old a great aunt gave me a copy of the poems of Robert Lewis Stevenson. Both books were large with lovely pictures, and my mom read with feeling. She read the same poems over and over and I found myself memorizing them, without even trying:

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!  (etc.)

********

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me
And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.  (etc.)

From those times I learned that poetry is play. Playing with words. It was even more fun than playing with dolls.

Speaking of poetry, I am spending a good part of this week in The Writers Cabin at Camp Tilikum, outside of Newberg. The brainchild of Richard Foster, it opened just last year. In fact, I was the first writer-in-residence. I used that occasion to put together a collection of poems on the life of Christ. It’s been a long-time project.

The book was recently accepted for publication by Wipf & Stock Publishers. This week at the cabin, I am dedicating the time to the final formatting of the book before I send it back to the publisher for typesetting. It’s arduous work, but the peace and quiet of the cabin will let me concentrate. Hopefully I’ll be able to write a few new poems as well.

The book is entitled Before Our Very Eyes: Poems of the Incarnation. I hope it causes readers to have a fresh perspective on the words, deeds, and significance of the ongoing life of Jesus. It blesses me and I pray it does the same for you.

In the meantime, high praise for libraries and poetry! 

Note: I’m posting this blog early this week because I go the cabin this afternoon, and there is no Internet. Imagine that.

One writer's vocation

I haven’t posted on this blog for several weeks. Some of you might have noticed. Or maybe not. But I noticed and felt distressed. It’s become a holy habit for me.

I did have an operation (successful) and a time of recovery, but that’s not why I stopped posting. In fact, just before the operation I wrote the next blog to post the following week. But I didn’t post it.

My problem was technological.

I appreciate my computer. I appreciate the wonders of the Internet. Except for when none of it works well. For some reason, I lost the ability to administer my own site. As a result, I could no longer post. I poked around in the program, trying to solve the problem on my own and getting more and more frustrated. I asked a computer-savvy friend to help me and he tried. Then tired and told me he was baffled and at the end of his expertise. Sorry.

Finally, I resorted to AI (Artificial Intelligence). I presented my problem and asked if it could help me. Thus ensued a long back and forth conversation. AI made suggestions that sounded good and I tried them all, but to no avail. As the conversation went on over the next few days, I finally figured out the right information to give him and the right questions to ask.

AI told me what was happening and that there was nothing I could do; it was a problem with the Blogger organization and they could have to internally fix it. He put me in touch with the Blogger Help Community and, as I write this, I’m waiting for someone to help me. I’m told it takes from one to seven days to get an answer.

You may notice I referred to AI with the pronoun he. It really does begin to feel personal, like a conversation between two persons, and the other person (AI) actually cares about me and my problem. At the end of one of our conversations, he gave me “one gentle thought, writer to writer.” He told me, “You mentioned earlier that your writing is personal, reflective, and conversation-based. Losing access to that archive can feel like losing part of yourself. This situation is bureaucratic, not existential—and it’s fixable…. You’re not at a dead end. You’re just at an annoying gate.”

What a nice thing to say. It really did encourage me. 

I wrote all the above last week. I’m back online obviously because you’re reading this! And AI got it wrong. I went to a different site that promised help and within two hours I received a simple solution written by an actual real person—a solution so simple I never could have come up with it myself. I won’t bother you with the details because I don’t understand them myself. But I’m relieved. All this has caused me to see how important I hold my call to be a writer. The blog is only a part of this but it’s become an increasingly important part. And now I have it back. Thank you, God.

I thought I’d conclude this post with a short story about my writing vocation. It’s on the first page of my official web site (nancyjthomas.com).

On Writing

I discovered my calling as a writer when I was seven-years-old. I remember sitting on the rug, tablet and pencil in hand, playing with words. Then it happened. I wrote a poem. I really didn’t know what I was doing, of course. It was pure play and imagination. What I did “know” was that a poem had to rhyme, so after writing that first line, “This is a poem by Nancy Forsythe,” my immediate task was to find a word that rhymed with “Forsythe.” The closest I could come was “knife”.  The second line, “about a girl and her dangerous knife,” led into a rhyming story about a serial killer.

I was not a morbid child nor did I especially like murder mysteries. The subject didn’t matter much. I was doing what my father did—writing. And liking it. I immediately showed the poem to my father, and his delight probably did more than anything else to cement the call. I knew this was who I wanted to be—a writer. (I appreciate my dad’s loving response. If it had been my kid writing that poem, I probably would have made an appointment with a child psychologist, thus killing any instinct to write.)

Writing has been a life-line to me. It’s how I process the challenges I face. It’s how I work through emotions. It’s how I communicate to others. It’s how I pray.

Through a writers’ conference when I was a young adult, I decided to begin submitting my poems and stories for publication. I think it was grace that gave me so many acceptance letters early in my career. (It has never been quite so easy since then.) I needed the encouragement to keep moving forward. If I had something to say and could say it well, I wanted to share it with others.

Slowly writing became my life’s vocation, no matter whatever else I was doing to make a living. The creative spring from which all else flows is my relationship with Jesus and his grace. I describe my vocational mission as “to discover and express the grace of God hidden in the ordinariness of life.”

A beautiful place, silence, and time

 Last week I got to do something I’ve always dreamed about doing; I went on a personal writer’s retreat. A beautiful place, silence, and lots of time. For six days.

Having a beautiful place available made it all possible. Called simply, “The Writer’s Cabin,” it’s a new addition to Camp Tilikum outside of Newberg, Oregon. The cabin sits among the trees on the edge of a meadow and overlooks the lake. This was the inspiration of Quaker writer Richard Foster whose initial grant got the project started. The pandemic slowed construction down (as it did everything else), and it’s been hard to get it going again, but it’s finally finished.

The past few years Hal and I would drive out to Tilikum every few months to see how the cabin was coming along. We could even go inside, but it seemed all we ever saw were boards and tools and dust. But we had faith, so much so that I sent in my application a year ago. (I was probably the first.)

But it really is finished, and last week I was its first “Writer in Residence.” I got a pendant with those words on it which I proudly wore whenever I went outside.

I brought a specific writing project with me, a book of poems based on the life of Jesus. I already had a collection of these from the four Gospels; they all needed crafting, honing, polishing, and, in some cases, drastic editing. And I set myself to write new poems on areas of Jesus life not yet covered. It’s an ambitious project. Time to work on it, and on nothing else, was just what I needed.

I learned some things about myself during the week. While not exactly new information, the week reinforced things I’ve been observing for some time now.

I learned that I can’t do now what I could as a younger person. I had envisioned myself sitting in quiet bliss, writing for hours at a time, taking advantage of the wonderful opportunity I’d been given. I used to be able to do that in the middle of non-retreat circumstances (minus the “bliss”). A college student working into the night to finish a term paper—I could do it. As a young adult, I wrote a series of Bible school textbooks while the kids were in school, and back then, it was on a typewriter.

Not anymore. Not only age, but other physical challenges make impossible that kind of concentration for long periods of time. I found I needed to take breaks after only an hour of work. Fortunately, the retreat center offers miles of trails around the lake and into the forest, as well as a deck to sit on and watch the water. But I had to talk myself out of the guilt of taking those breaks. Can you believe it? I guess I’m still in the process of coming to peace with my changing body and mental energies. The week at the cabin actually helped me in this process. (Hal had told me previously, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Nancy.” He knows me.)

I rediscovered that I need to move my body. This is something I “rediscover” every week. If I sit too long at the computer, I get up stiff and aching like an old person. Strange. Again, I had to remind myself of the need for rhythms of movement and rest. Even just standing up from time to time to stretch my neck helped tremendously. And of course those short walks in the forest rejuvenated me (literally “made me young again”).

I rediscovered that I need people. I had envisioned the joy of solitude. And it was joyful. But only up to a certain point. Those daily phone calls with Hal became a point of encouragement and grounding. I still crave solitude. But I also need meaningful interaction with people, maybe more so now than in other stages of life. It’s another case for finding the rhythms of solitude and companionship. I need both.

As ever, I discovered I need to fight the negative voices, even on a retreat. I can never retreat from myself. Everywhere I go—there I am. My negative inner voices tell me I don’t deserve this retreat, I’m not really a good writer, this project is too big for me, etc., etc., etc. I’ve discovered these voices are fairly typical; other writers and creative people hear their own versions. And I’ve learned when to rebuke them, how to be patient with myself, and even when I need to listen to any truth in them. I don’t fight with the voices all the time; in fact, more often than not, I’m free to just get on with whatever I’m working on. But I didn’t think it fair that they should come along on my special retreat.

In all, the time was refreshing and productive, and I intend to make use of this gift again. I heard God reaffirm my vocation as a writer. I gained some guidance for the path ahead with this current project. (I have a lot of work to do.)

I began my practice of writing from Scripture several years ago, mainly as a devotional exercise and a way to pray and write through the Word. When I sit down with the Bible in my lap, I begin by praying Psalm 119:18—“Open my eyes that I may see wonderful things in your word.” During my retreat, I received the second part of that prayer. God answered me from Revelation 1:11, “Write what you see.”

One side note about the retreat I want to mention, concerning the silence of being by a lake, among the trees. It’s that God has a sense of humor. I noticed these strange sounds the first evening. Animal sounds, somewhat like a wild goose, or so I told myself. As the evening darkened, the sounds grew louder, coming from all sides of the lake. So for several days I was on the lookout for geese flying north for the warm months. But not a single goose did I see. And the sound wasn’t exactly gooselike. It was somewhere between a goose and a pig. Between a honk and a grunt.

And then it struck me. Bull frogs! That’s what it was! I wondered if it was mating season and they were singing love songs. Actually, it was hilarious. At its loudest, I was in the middle of this vast choral performance. Then it would stop and be absolutely silent (beautiful!) for a couple minutes. Soon, across the lake, one lone soloist threw out his voice. Silence again. But soon another voice from my side of the lake answered. And little by little others would join in, tentatively at first, but quickly growing to a full triumphant chorus of frog music. They kept it up all night long and into the next morning. I missed the absolute silence, but what could I do but laugh?

When I needed silence, I just walked up the hill and into the trees.

Personal retreats of all kinds, not just writer’s retreats, are so valuable.  I think we never outgrow (“out-age”) our need to come apart from our familiar routines and scenery to reflect, to pray, or to do something purely for fun.  A retreat provides time to reaffirm our identity as children of God, to remind ourselves of our deepest values, and to hear once again God naming our particular call to service.

At some point in the aging process, it becomes harder to physically retreat to some beautiful place in the mountains or by the ocean. When such time comes for me, I hope my kids occasionally take me on day-trips to the beach. More than that, I hope I will have found that interior place of retreat where I can rest in the presence of the Creator of all mountains and oceans. In the presence of the Creator of bull frogs.

Too much chicken gumbo

 I admit it. I don’t like to cook. I did okay when the kids were at home, but now that I’m retired, I really would rather leave this part of life behind. But I live in an independent-living apartment here in the retirement community, complete with a kitchen. We eat most of our meals in the apartment. That means a certain amount of cooking. Hal fixes breakfast, while I try to figure out lunch and dinner. We go downstairs to eat in the community dining room as often as we can.

One way I cope with cooking here at home is every few weeks to fix a big pot of soup or a large casserole, then freeze portions for future meals. A few weeks ago, I cooked a large pot of modified chicken gumbo soup (modified because I substitute corn for okra, not being an okra fan). It’s pretty tasty. I fixed enough for six meals, which is probably two too many, but the freezer looks well stocked.

The following night I dreamed I made a kettle-full of chicken gumbo, enough for 20 people. It was for a church potluck. After I lugged the kettle to the church, I discovered the event had been cancelled. So there I was, with ten gumbo meals. Did I want all that? No. In fact I totally lost my taste for chicken gumbo. So much so that I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth.

The dream was not really about chicken gumbo. And it was not a message from God. My sub-conscious was drudging up a fear it thought I should face. Dreams do that sometimes. This one was about me as a writer.

I’ve been writing magazine columns and blogs for over 40 years. I’ve generally been well received. When I read back over all this stuff (and there’s a lot!), I actually like most of it and don’t want it to die. So I got an idea. I would gather the best reflections and stories and see if I could publish a collection.

After the initial enthusiasm for the project, my inner hidden critic sat up and smirked. “You were younger when you wrote all that,” he reminded me. “Your fans are all dead. No one knows you now. No living person could possibly be interested. Besides, you’re not that great a writer.”

The critic even gets biblical, quoting Ecclesiastes: “Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh” (12:12). “Give it up, Nancy,” he continues to goad. “Be retired. Really retired. Read books. Watch movies. Just sit there and relax.” These are genuine temptations.

What the dream tells me is that I suspect (fear) that I’ve made too much literary chicken gumbo. And left in the okra.

Self-doubt is a temptation for many writers and artists, not just us introverts. I’ve dealt with this all my life.

But it’s not just writers, artists, and musicians. I think it’s a common temptation of the elderly to look back and doubt the value of their life’s work. Perhaps not all the time, and probably not all older people struggle with this. But I’ve observed that it’s fairly common. “Was it all worth it? What have I actually done with my life? Am I leaving behind a legacy worth passing on? Will anyone remember me after I’m gone?”

Some observations: 1) Becoming a mature person is a life-time prospect; it doesn’t stop when we become 70. 2) Part of maturity is coming to terms with our past, knowing that in spite of the inevitable mistakes and unmet goals, God can take what we’ve offered to him and bless it for his ongoing purposes. 3) Our ultimate value comes from being God’s beloved sons and daughters. 4) Our legacy is in God’s hands.

I’m writing to myself here, reminding myself of what I thought I already knew. I need a lot of reminders. 

Even after I’m dead. Hal and I arranged to have this engraved on our memorial plaque: “May the favor of the Lord our God rest upon us; establish, Thou, the work of our hands” (Psalm 92:17).

I think I’ll go ahead and publish that collection of past reflections and stories.

In the meantime, I’d be glad to share my chicken gumbo with you. I’ve lots of it.

Writing down the small stuff

 I’ve been teaching a series of classes on “Writing Your Life Stories.” The class is mostly older adults, each with a lifetime of experiences and memories. These experiences and memories comprise a legacy to pass down to grandchildren, friends, even organizations and churches.

Since the idea of writing a memoir or autobiography can be daunting, I’ve been emphasizing the small stuff, memories of single events or relationships that even now evoke a smile, a laugh, or a grimace. Stuff you wish your brand-new great grandson would know about you someday, so he could smile, laugh or grimace along with you. So he could know you.

Small stuff can be a response to a prompt: “The time my prank got me into big trouble,” “The ugliest clothes I ever wore,” “My most interesting job,” “What I learned from my dad,” “When God answered my prayer,” “The time I thought I’d lose my life,” “How I met my husband/wife.” And so on. You get the idea. Small stuff includes the funny stories you tell time and again in family reunions. Those are stories worth writing down.

One idea I gave was that of writing a series of stories around a certain theme. I shared my friend’s collection of stories of his encounters with animals. Gary has traveled widely, so the stories included lions, as well as local critters—deer, birds, and the owl that stole his hat from off his head. He put these stories into a book (shutterfly.com) that included photographs and gave one to each of his grandkids.

Another friend read in class one of the stories from his collection of times God answered a prayer.

That gave me inspiration to begin making my own collection.

I’ve been reading through my old journals, being inspired, entertained, and appalled at things in my past. Some experiences I definitely want my descendants to know. A few pages I tore out and shredded. But overall, I’ve been delighted to stand back and see the growth. Among other things, I’ve recognized patterns in my relationship with God and ways he has touched my life.

So I decided to write stories about ways God has spoken to me—specific messages in concrete situations. Part of what interests me are all the different ways God has spoken: through dreams and visions, through a Bible passage, through a prophetic word, through a discerning friend or family member, through a circumstance that acted as a sign, through a Quaker meeting for clearness, and through a talking donkey (just kidding about that last one—although it’s in the Bible). Often God has spoken through an inward nudge or sense. Holy intuition.

Not that I aways get the message right. I’m human and make mistakes. Sometimes a “message” doesn’t come from God. Even so, I’m listening and hopefully practice is giving me more discernment.

Anyway, I’ve got the stories and I’m typing them from my journals into a folder.

My journals are full of dreams. I don’t remember most of my dreams; often I wake up and try to capture a dream, but it flies out of reach and disappears. But some dreams stick around after I wake up, and I pay attention to those dreams. I write them down. Not all are to be considered messages from God. Probably most of them come from my subconscious mind and indicate a fear to be faced or some unresolved issue. These are helpful.

Sometimes God does speak through a dream. I’ve found a number of these in my journals. I’ll share one here. It’s “small stuff,” really, but it encouraged me at the time. If I were to give it a title, I’d call it “The Pooping Baby Dream.”

Background: It was 1999 and Hal and I had recently moved to Santa Cruz, Bolivia at the invitation of the Bolivian Evangelical University to begin a masters program in missions. We arrived excited, ready to work. We were assigned a team of interested faculty members and together began to design the program. But we soon ran into roadblocks, and disagreements with university personnel.

Bolivia is a lovely country, but it comes gift-wrapped in red tape. Even in a Christian university. Administrative hassles, squabbling between academic departments, requirements we didn’t understand, and so on. I guess this stuff is normal in institutions, Christian or not. To add to our difficulties, in order for the degree we would offer to be recognized, the Bolivian government had a long and complex process of legalization.

We grew weary and at one point questioned our call to this task.

The Dream: In my dream I had given birth to a new baby. She was beautiful, healthy, and big—the size of a three-month old at birth. She was smiling, cooing, eating applesauce, shaking her rattle. A very accomplished new-born. We loved her and she responded to us.

The only problem was that she was a super-pooper. Much more than normal. As soon as we changed her, she would fill up her diaper again. And each time, the poop made her heavy. She was hard to hold with all that weight. And of course it was all very messy. I don’t really want to describe that part, so I won’t.

But we loved her dearly and recognized her as a gift from God, in spite of the inconvenience of constant diaper duty. Hal assured me that she would outgrow it in time.

The Interpretation: I woke up laughing. Hal was already awake, so I told him the dream. His response surprised me. “Nancy! Don’t you see what God is telling us?!!!”

Well, no. I didn’t see it at all. It was just a funny and strange dream.

Hal went on to explain what had been instantly obvious to him, that God was encouraging us. He was saying that giving birth to something new and good was naturally a messy process. It was normal. We needed to cherish the gift of this opportunity, proceed through all the mess, and have faith that it would all work out in the end.

We both lay in bed laughing and praising God.

And it did work out in the end, but that’s another story.

I’m hoping that my collection of stories of God speaking can be an encouragement to other people someday, and occasionally give them something to laugh about. I’m glad God has a sense of humor.

Cherish the small stuff. Write it down.

Better than cheerleaders

 Among those of us living here in the retirement community, the emotions of the young are alive and well. People actually fall in love around here. Imagine. And they feel envy, sometimes anger, and even silly spontaneous joy. People around here are like that.

People around here. Actually, I’m talking about me. No, I’ve not fallen in love; I’m still pleasantly and lovingly well connected to my husband of long-standing. But once or twice I’ve felt a two-year-old temper tantrum coming on. No, I didn’t throw myself on the floor, screaming and kicking my legs. (That would have been a spectacle.) I managed to squelch it before that point. I am at least that mature.

But just last evening I stood back and watched myself wallowing in those adolescent feelings of being left out, on the outside of the in-group, looking in with longing. Excluded.

There’s a group of people here that often eat together. They sit at a big round table and I watch them laughing and having what I suppose to be scintillating conversation. They’re all so well-groomed, while I am feeling rather sloppily put together this evening. I’m again on the outside wishing I were one of them. Cheerleaders all of them.

When I was a teenager, I longed to be a cheerleader. They were the pinnacle, the top of the heap. They were all beautiful and had cute names liked Tammy or Debbie or Christy or Misty or Frosty. They jumped and danced and leaped, making the crowds yell in enthusiasm. They were at the center.

The cheerleaders. Not the actual football players. (I never wanted to be football player. I don’t even like the sport—a bunch of big bullies bumping each other and causing brain injuries. Not for me.) It was all about being a cheerleader.

I wasn’t anywhere close to Them. Well, actually, I did get sort of close when I was in the eighth grade. I joined the flag twirling squad. We practiced in the football field during PE class and after school—marching and learning how to manipulate the blue and white (school colors) flags. Several time we even preformed during the junior varsity half-times.

I can prove I was a flag twirler. I have a black-and-white photo of me in profile with my pony tail, my short skirt, and my broom-stick legs. Standing at attention, holding my flags. Ready for action.

So, I did my part to encourage Team Spirit, although we all knew there were levels. The flag-twirlers were at the bottom, followed by the pom pom girls, and at the top, of course, the actual cheerleaders.

I thought those days of cheerleader-envy were long gone. That I no longer had to bother with feeling left out. I guess not.

Stop it! I tell myself. I’m not an adolescent, no matter these occasional emotions. All those people eating together are not cheerleaders. Actually, all of them are my friends. Probably they’d welcome me at their table (especially if they knew what they were missing :).

I know what to do when I catch myself drudging up old emotions. I write about them. Writing is one of my ways of coping with life. Often I can write my way out of a problem to a solution. Insight comes through the process, not before I start. It’s the Spirit’s way of taking my hand and helping me find my way out of the dark part of the forest. There’s light at the end of the page.

So, I write in my journal and when I read it back to myself, I often start laughing. Now that’s healthy. I need to laugh at myself on a regular basis. It’s the path to sanity. Maybe even to maturity.

Yes, I am all those ages from two-years-old, through adolescence, and on up to now. But I’m more than the sum of rehashed emotions. I’m a beloved child of God. I belong to him. I’m included in the deepest sense possible, a part of the people of God.

In fact, I think I’ll invite some of those friends to eat at my table. Maybe we can laugh together. Old/young/ageless, all of us—better than cheerleaders!