Unfortunately, ladies (and gents), we live in the Era of Optimization.

It seems like I’m being told—and sold—at every turn to get more out of my day, my body, my skills [insert a costumed Adam Driver yelling MORE], and that whatever is available to be optimized, should be leveled up.

And danggit if I’m not susceptible to this messaging. Its like someone in an overly bright boardroom somewhere had the brilliant idea to capitalize on eldest daughter energy and thought, ‘Ah, THIS is our new 2026 buzzword…’ [writes OPTIMIZED with a squeaky blue marker]. I love it and I hate it. It’s the shiny promise that if we can just master this particular area of our life, then everything will be okay. If I can optimize my morning routine, then I’ll have unending patience to deal with my rowdy children. If I can optimize my health routine, then I won’t have to think about aging and the challenges that brings. If I optimize my work schedule, then I’ll achieve the elusive work-life balance.

It sounds so great, doesn’t it?

And I want to be fair here; there are routines and systems that truly bring peace and a sense of balance to my life. Going to bed (and sleep) between 10 and 10:30 on most nights is my sweet spot. It allows me to get a good 8 hours of quality sleep, which is biologically what my body needs (I know because I’ve tested this out…I can function alright on 7, but 6 is not enough) to be ready for the next day. In order for me to actually fall asleep around 10:30, I’ll need to start winding down at 9 or 9:30. I’ll do the usual night time routine things that we millennial women perfected (low lights, comfy pjs, skincare, magnesium, hot tea, reading an actual paper book) in order to optimize my runway to dreamland. Does it always work? No. Does it mostly work? Sure, most nights. Do I enjoy the routine? Immensely.

And this is the point.

Structure and systems are not an end in themselves, they are a means for creating more space, more freedom, more enjoyment, which allows us to fully live our lives. We don’t need to become slaves to these systems, because maintaining agency is really important (and attractive, don’t you think?) We also don’t need to become control freaks who miss a wonderful moment of spontaneity because it’s not blocked out in our calendar. As much as I love a good order of operations, what I’m saying is that static structure exists for the living. A house is built for the people inside. A framework holds up a full and beautiful life, not the other way around.

To get this order right, we need to do a little self-reflection. We can start by doing a simple life audit and noticing where our resources (time, attention, money) are going. We can ask: what are my life values? Not what I say I want them to be… what are they actually? Exercises like this help us slow down and take stock of where our energy is coming from and going to, and give us a real baseline for building the life we want.

And this is where I’ll stop talking in the abstract, because this week I actually built something to do it.

It’s called The Signal Map. The idea is simple, even if the doing takes a little honesty: you lay out where your time, attention, and money are actually going, and you set that next to what you say you value. The gaps are the whole point. Most of us are running on noise—the pings, the shoulds, the constant low hum telling us to optimize one more thing—and the signal is whatever’s underneath all of it that’s actually true about how we want to live. The map just makes the two visible at the same time, so you can see where your real life and your stated values may have drifted apart.

I didn’t build it to optimize you. I built it because I want you to know what you actually value and to be confident in where your energy is going. This is a small tool to help you see your own life with new eyes. I want you to be strategic with your own life on purpose… if not you, who else will?

You can’t build a life made for deep, soul-delighted living if you can’t see the floor plan you’re already standing on.

So here’s how it works, and it’s quick (under ten minutes) and free. You answer one deceptively simple question, over and over: which one gets more of you? Family or work. Health or something else. Nine channels, all competing for the same finite bandwidth, and you choose—head to head, gut first, no time to talk yourself into the answer you wish were true. That’s the whole trick. You can make a values list say anything. It’s harder to hide when it’s just this or that and you have to pick.

What comes out the other side is your signal map: your real priorities, ranked, most important first. Not the aspirational version… the one you actually live. And if you want it to keep working with you, it’ll hand you a small agent you can drop into a Claude or ChatGPT chat that checks in every couple of weeks and asks, gently, whether your life is still lining up with what you said mattered most.

Go find your signal. I think you already know which channel’s been getting your leftovers—but there’s something clarifying about watching yourself choose it in real time.

Until next time,

SBL

If you enjoy learning how to leverage productivity and AI tools to help you live a more creative life, then join me — that’s the journey I’m on, too. I’ve written about my first build here, a Chief of Staff agent on Claude Cowork, which you might like to read! 💻🤍

I came home from the TGCW conference with a renewed sense of calling–that elusive thing I was made to do but somehow keep forgetting. I was made to read, to write, to leverage the way my mind works (strategically, organizationally, bringing clarity to areas of chaos) in service of the Church and Kingdom. I’ve known this from a young age, and during some seasons I’ve fought it, and during others I’ve simply misplaced it. But I know it when I find it again… it feels like remembering your own name.

I caught the vision when I was young. I understood the simplicity of the gospel–the first and last word of God–and I trusted my life to it, to Jesus. I also understood the means of the gospel, the people of God, and I saw that they needed leadership. From a young age, I wanted to put my hands to the work that God started back in the garden. Work was important; it held dignity and inherently good meaning. The work of the church was good too. It saved people sometimes, it healed people sometimes. (It also hurt people sometimes, but that knowledge came later.) What could matter more than telling people about the God who made them and loved them and wanted to be involved in their lives?

But so much life happens in the in-between years of calling and the working out of calling. Years of doubt (did I really hear a call? Did I make it up in my head?) and unbelief (surely God doesn’t call people like me… Does he know what kind of person I am? Does he actually love me, like me me, and remember that he called me all those years ago?). Years of quiet, behind-the-scenes experiences that weave together a binding fabric of family meals, nursing babies, endless loads of laundry, even more loaves of banana bread, road trips, birthday parties, afternoons in the park, singing in a small congregation on a Sunday morning, studying and reading and writing into the wee hours of the night. The calling was happening, is happening, and always feels just out of reach.

I miss that quiet season sometimes. “Quiet” is relative, of course–what I really mean is hidden. In reality, our house was often loud and full of little boy noise. We lived in an old farmhouse for many of those years: 4 adults, 1 teenager, and 3 little boys (and a scruffy dog). It wasn’t an easy season, per se; it had its unique challenges. We were living multi-generationally for the first time. I was finishing my undergrad, working part-time in a new role (and mom-ing full time), reading and writing like my life depended on it. Michael was commuting a long way to trailblaze a new career. We were living very frugally, and also learning how to live well. The roots of family, faith, and our love for God and one another were going down deep. Good work–not a perfect life–was the outward expression of that love.

At the end of 2025, Michael and I spent a couple of weeks slowly working through a guided life-planning process.1 I’ve always loved that liminal time between Christmas and New Year’s; it feels untethered from clocks and calendars, a bit like floating through early wintry space. We spent our evenings talking through questions about every area of life–family, love, money, body, vocation, hobbies, work–and setting one-year, five-year, and ten-year goals around a concrete vision of what we actually wanted.

The process can be quite emotional. I found myself feeling a range of things: happiness that Michael and I were aligned on most areas of our lives, curiosity at being given permission to explore things like intellectual life and creative work, real excitement at the vision I was beginning to see ahead–but also frustration at what I perceived as blockers, and a kind of sadness as I came to the realization that some very real things needed to change. In the end, I decided to leave my (then-current) job. If I’m honest, I would have already known the decision was made in my heart even before we began–but I was too scared to say it out loud. I had invested so much to take on that role (time, energy, money, so many hours and weeks and months, my family’s bandwidth), and I knew it wasn’t working… but I couldn’t admit it, until I was faced with my own scrawled notes and bullet-pointed goals written out in black and white on the page. Seeing my own life trajectory written out was exactly what I needed to find the courage to leave.

I know it’s popular right now to decentralize work from how we present ourselves online (which is so weird when you think about it… the performative nature of “how we present ourselves” but what else do you call it??); it’s a natural reaction against the glamorization of hustle culture and girlboss energy and corporatism, all of which proved to be shallow at best and exploitative at worst. I’m not advocating for a life that is only about work. Life is wonderfully multidimensional, and we should enjoy–and be seen enjoying–all of it. But work is still such a significant part of our lives that I believe it deserves our attention and care. Most of our days are spent in what we broadly call “work,” whether that is being a primary caregiver, building a business, contributing to a team, giving your time and skills to a ministry or non-profit. We rightfully spend ourselves on what matters to us and what helps us live. (We are lucky if we can check both boxes at once.)

The thing about work is that it is tangible; it is action. It is someone’s idea come to life–what was once a mere spark, now in the real world. And good work is even more so. Good work is a reflection of God’s created order, and points us back to his original assessment: God saw all that he had made, and it was very good (Gen. 1:31). Karen Swallow Prior explains it this way: “Goodness is truth made manifest. Just as truth is connected to knowing, goodness is connected to doing and how that doing is done.”2 If we care about bringing goodness into this world through the means of our time and energy and skills and talents, then we should care about doing good work. I think about this a lot. I believe we don’t need to think less about work; we need to think better about it. Good work does not mean perfect outcomes, by the way. But good work will be anchored in truth, and have a relation with beauty, and have—as George MacDonald puts it— “the germ of creation and redemption” somewhere in it.

MacDonald arrives at that phrase as he meditates on the opening of John’s gospel, “All things were made by him, and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men,” vs. 1:3-4. MacDonald contends for the emphasis found in the original Greek, and a slight moving of the period, which gives us something more like this:

All things were made through him [Christ], and without him was made not one thing. That which was made in him was life, and the life was the light of men.

Therefore, says MacDonald, “in this grand assertion seems to me to lie, more than shadowed, the germ of creation and redemption—of all the divine in its relation to all the human.”3

I’m simmering on these words. All the divine in its relation to all the human. And then this, a few pages later:

“As to what the life of God is in relation to us, we know that it is the causing life of everything that we call life–of everything that is; and in knowing this, we know something of that life, by the very forms of its force. But the one interminable mystery… is first, how [God] can be self-existent, and the next, how he can make other beings exist; self-existence and creation no man will ever understand… If we could make ourselves, we should understand our creation, but to do that we must be God… Nevertheless, if I be a child of God, I must be like him, like him even in the matter of this creative energy. There must be something in me that corresponds in its childish way to the eternal might in him.”4

The longer I live, the more I experience and observe… and the more questions I carry. I’m still asking about my own calling, and now that of our family. How can we perceive it? And if we are awake and have faith to recognize God’s hand at work, how can we then receive the gift? I know this for sure–and contrary to how most of contemporary culture thinks about creative expression–we are incapable of true original creation, as this is only a divine activity, but what we can do is receive from the Father of Lights. We can seek after and desire his life in us, and the working out of this life will look a lot like creative action, and hopefully good work.

And this is the wonderful thing about it all: God intends for his children to be like him, and the beautiful image of Christ (the Son and perfect God-man), in our work. To bring newness and life and originality and deep-calling-to-deep (and that intangible atmosphere that reminds us of the eternal) to all that we put our hands to, by the vitality of his Holy Spirit. We are not little gods, but if we are hidden in Christ, then we have his resurrection life in us–and surely, this will give us the eyes to see our baking, writing, coding, directing, teaching, nurturing, building, and whatever-we’re-doing as our calling come to life.

We cannot generate, but we can receive. We don’t own it, but we can be formed by it. The calling will work itself out in our lives like a little bit of yeast in some bread dough. This is enough, and it’s really good.

Until next time,

SBL

If you’ve been reading my words for any length of time, you’ve probably already gathered that I don’t make changes lightly. However, that’s not the whole picture… maybe it seems from the outside that my decision-making is swift, but know that once I’m there, an army of Orks couldn’t deter my stubborn stance. I’m the woman who reads (slowly) with a pencil in hand, looking for detailed connections to other works, who color-codes her G-cal weeks in advance, who spent the better part of a year researching George MacDonald’s theology before writing a five-thousand-word master’s proposal and then deciding not to proceed (for now… pray for my patient husband). Strategic, thorough, deliberate. Perhaps annoyingly so!

So when I say: I’m changing the name of this publication (and I mean it), you should know it cost me something to get here.

Coram Deo. Latin, meaning “before the face of God.” It’s been the theological lens through which I’ve written every piece in this space–the idea that all of life, the mundane and the magnificent and the genuinely messy, is lived in the presence of an infinitely wise God. This belief has not changed. If anything, the last year has only rooted it more deeply in me.

But I’ve also come to realize that the name was a filter. And not the good kind.

The woman I most want to reach–the one who is curious and exhausted and also maybe a little skeptical of the very institutions that would recognize a Latin phrase–might click away before reading a single sentence. You found your way here, so you’re probably not her. But she exists. And she is exactly who this work is for.

So. More Bandwidth.

It began as an inside joke, a way to echo corporate-speak and turn it on its ridiculous head. But the idea grew roots in my heart, and I couldn’t shake it. It’s layered, this idea, and it occupies my imagination more than almost anything else. It makes me ask questions like, what does it mean to be human? To be a woman? Well, it means a few things, at the very least…

Capacity. Most of us are maxed out. Google Calendars that look like a toddler went crazy with a box of crayons. Schedule syncs with your spouse that keep getting pushed to mid-week dinner. To-do lists on every device (also written on the back of a receipt at the bottom of your purse). I know this life because I’ve lived it, and I’m slowly recovering from it. This space is for women who are wide-awake to what they’re building, creating, sustaining… and who sense that something needs to breathe. More Bandwidth doesn’t mean more productivity; it means more margin for what actually matters.

Clarity. The culture is loud. It has opinions–strong ones–about who you should be and what a good life looks like, and it will sell you that version for a price. Bandwidth, in the truest sense, is about signal clarity: learning to hear what is actually true beneath all the static. For me, that journey is inseparable from what I believe about God, design, and the very intentional limits of a human life. You’ll encounter that in the work–hopefully not as a gatekeeper, but as the foundation beneath everything.

Calling. This is probably the single most important theme I return to in my writing. We spend our whole lives either running toward or away from the One calling us home, and I know because I’ve lived both. I want to explore what it means to walk out our true calling, as children of God, and inhabitants of this very specific time and place. I’ve pulled on this thread recently and would love your thoughts on this article.

These three pillars–capacity and clarity and calling—are what this space is about.

The writing isn’t changing. The voice isn’t changing. I’ll keep asking what a well-lived life actually looks like for women who don’t fit neatly into the boxes we’re handed. I’ll keep making the argument that the signals your body sends aren’t weakness, that your limits aren’t failures, and that there is a better, more beautiful way than the one we’re sold online. And I’ll keep approaching all of it from a place of deep faith… not as a prerequisite for reading, but as the reason I keep writing.

What’s changing: the name. The look (in process). And eventually I’d love to explore other ways to have this conversation with you, dear reader.

If you’ve been reading Coram Deo, nothing changes on your end. You’re already here.

Welcome to More Bandwidth.

— Sara

This morning we’re packing the minivan to the brim with suitcases and pillows and swim accessories, headed east for a few wild days at a family resort and water park. Our boys are bouncing off the walls at 8 am, earlier than usual for a summer Monday, and I’m finishing my first cup of coffee standing at the kitchen counter. The sky is dark, threatening rain for the drive. Soon, I’ll gather all of the still-beautiful flowers around my house and take them to my mother-in-law next door to enjoy while we’re gone.

My left knee is aching. I’m pretty sure I twisted it the wrong way on Friday at Pilates. Those sumo squat combination moves are coming back to haunt. Leading the 3 & 4 aged class at church yesterday probably made it worse–with the sheer physicality of playing on the floor for an hour and a half–but how can you know in the moment? How can you know when the precious faces of girls and boys with the very biggest imaginations and feelings are looking at you and repeating (tiny hands mimicking the related motion) that “God sees the heart”? When your body feels strong and capable, and you move with the pace of the class, and the music is good, how can you know a muscle or tendon deep behind the knee is straining too far? But this morning, my body has stored all of these experiences, and reminds me of them. With the rain starting to fall, we get in the van and drive.

I guess this is the year of road trips for us. Four days, countless roller coasters, a water park, and a hotel room with five people in it. On the drive home, Michael has Led Zeppelin going and the boys are deep into their video games, and I have my laptop open on my knees and my phone’s hotspot running. It’s almost a joke at this point that building spreadsheets counts as my introvert time. (It does, though. I’m serious.)

We set aside this trip to 1.) have fun and 2.) make memories, not necessarily to take a break from work or to rest. I’ve learned over the years that family vacations don’t usually allow for recuperation, although I will make a special effort at carving out moments of downtime while we are on the road–a way to keep the pace without losing our sanity. The lines between family time and work time, fun and frustration, energy spent and energy restored, are forever being blurred.

I’m less worried these days about keeping strict boundaries because I’ve figured something out: I used to manage my life by tasks. What’s done, what’s not, which domain I was supposed to be in at any given hour. That system produces a particular kind of guilt that’s hard to shake–the feeling that you’re always a little late to wherever you’re supposed to be present. I’ve mostly quit it. The question I ask now is simpler and harder: what do I actually want?

Not the polished answer, but the true and honest one. I want to be deeply present in my family’s life. I want vocational work that shifts things from chaos to clarity and that empowers people toward something. Those two wants are not at war with each other, but they don’t manage themselves either. They require ongoing discernment (and hard work, let’s be real) about what matters most in a given moment.

We’re back home and recalibrating to life again. I am grateful for our time together, for the ability to carve out memories that will hold for decades to come. I’m grateful to be back in a class this morning, the dull ache in my knee still present as my body gets stronger–all of it stored, none of it wasted. There is more work to do, problems demanding solutions, and ideas waiting to come to life. It’s not perfect, but perfection isn’t my desired outcome anyway.

Until next time,

SBL

Notebooks and fancy pencils and numerous planners. Project managers and note-taking systems. Personality frameworks. Countless productivity apps. At some point, I stopped counting and started just managing the tools. Feeding them. Maintaining them. Using a tool long enough to understand what it can and cannot do (and living with a low level of frustration because of friction, lets be honest). Trying to make these tools talk to each other, which they mostly refused to do.

The irony is cringe-level sharp: I am a person who cares deeply about living an integrated life. I believe the compartmentalization of work, faith, family, and self is one of the great lies of modern culture–the lie that these things belong in separate boxes and should stay there. And yet the infrastructure of my professional life was almost perfectly designed to keep everything fragmented.

Earlier this year, Michael and I went through a process called Life Focus. It’s a guided process (created by the Full Focus team) that uses prompt cards and workbooks and can be done solo or with your partner. I enjoyed the fact that it was a physical/tactile process using the cards and handwriting in the workbooks–they don’t make a digital version, so it forces you to slow down and really get immersed in the experience of it all. I won’t oversell it; it was a structured, honest audit of where my life actually was, not where I told myself it was. Where was I spending my time? Where was I not? What was I avoiding? What was I building toward, and what was I quietly drifting from without quite admitting it?

It was hard. It was also one of the most clarifying things I’ve ever done.

What it revealed wasn’t dramatic. It was more like a subtle series of recognitions… that I was showing up fully in some areas of my life, and in others, I had been running on autopilot for years. That some of my professional commitments, however they looked from the outside, were costing me in ways I had stopped acknowledging.

At the time, I was working for a national media organization (and fairly new to my role), and I was excited to expand my network and gain some new experience. But once I settled into the job, a couple of really clear signals began to ring–the role wasn’t a good fit for my personality and skills, and even more importantly, the schedule (and commute) was killing me. I missed my people, I missed my slow quiet mornings, I missed just being in our home, the place we’ve spent years cultivating to suit our family life. What was I trading 55 hours of my week away from all of this for…?

Ultimately, the decision to leave my job emerged from the Life Focus process.

I left a role that, by most external measures, was a good one, but the honest truth was that it required me to be someone I’m not… to shrink into a sustained execution role when my whole design is to build, lead, and create. The structured admin work that defined that role was, in Lencioni’s language, my Working Genius frustration. Add to that: my exercise schedule had to shift to a 6 am class (with a drive), so I was much less motivated to do that more than twice a month, and I was sitting at a desk and in a car for much of the day. As if I needed a sour cherry on top, my family was telling me (in real words, out loud, with their mouths) that they “never saw me” anymore. Every day was a small erosion.

And yes, leaving was hard. Regaining agency always costs something first.

But here’s what happened after: I got excited again. Genuinely, unperformatively excited. About work. About what I’m building. About the particular position I’m in–a woman who loves productivity systems and personality frameworks and strategic thinking and faith and motherhood and writing–and how all of those things actually belong together instead of being organized into separate tabs.

This month, I built something.

It started with a question I’ve been sitting with for months: what would it look like if my tools actually knew me? Not just my calendar or my inbox, but me. My priorities, my energy rhythms, my non-negotiables, the things that drain me, the people who matter, even the way my body moves through the month and what that means for how I schedule hard things. What if instead of me serving my tools, my tools served my actual life?

The answer I’ve been working toward is an AI Chief of Staff. A strategic partner that holds context across everything–not just tasks, but values, relationships, and goals. One that knows when to push and when to protect. That flags the things I’ve said matter before I shove them aside for whatever is demanding in the moment.

I built a setup wizard to help other women create their own on Claude Cowork (you need to already have an account). It takes about twenty minutes to dial it in. You answer honest questions about your roles, your working preferences, your energy patterns, your schedule, what drains you–and it generates a personalized setup you can use immediately. And it’s totally free!

You can try it here: Your AI Chief of Staff 👩🏼‍💻

And here is the setup guide with extra tips and tricks to make your CoS absolutely kill it.

I really enjoyed the process of creating this agent. And since I’ve left that last role, my work life has pivoted to a new season that I’ll share more about soon. I know everyone is going nuts on the internet about making a cajillion dollars from their AI app, but I simply wanted more from my tech setup, and my Chief of Staff has proven to be actually helpful in my day-to-day work. I hope it’s helpful for you, too!

If you build your CoS, please let me know how it’s going! Also, what did you name her? 😁

Until next time,

SBL

If you enjoy learning how to leverage productivity and AI tools to help you live a more creative life, then join me — that’s the journey I’m on, too. I’ve written recently about building The Signal Map, a tool to help you see where your energy is going. I hope you check it out! 💻🤍

When I was in my twenties, I loved a bold red lip moment. I was a young makeup artist and was often given free product from high-end brands (a nice perk, for sure), so I tested every shade of red lipstick available. Often, I would wear a shade of bright red, and the color would overtake my whole face…you couldn’t really even see me because all you were looking at were my lips. For whatever reason–probably a mid-2000s trend–the shades were often super saturated, and usually had an orange base of color.

I know now, after having my colors done a few years ago, that orange-based makeup is not my friend. My skin tone is too fair and neutral, and especially if the product is super saturated or heavy, it will drown out my whole look. Nowadays, I tend to wear lip colors that are a cool nude, or, if I want a bolder lip look, I’ll do a berry-red (and a soft-matte or sheer texture is always best for me). That’s not to say those bolder looks of my youth were wrong per se, they just didn’t enhance my very specific design. No shame on my younger self, I just didn’t know. And that’s okay.

But because of my color analysis experience, I now have information/data that can help me make better decisions. Now I know.

I’m also thinking about how this applies to the vocational journey that I’ve been on for 20+ years. In my twenties, I traveled and lived in many places and had stints working at coffee shops, but my passion was working as a makeup artist. I started by working in luxury retail and then as a sales rep for specific brands–this helped to build my knowledge of the products, as well as sales, financial planning, and corporate training. Soon enough, I became an assistant to a sought-after production makeup artist, and eventually built a clientele of my own. My favorite moments were working together on set with a crew for a video shoot, a commercial, or a photoshoot. I loved the creative work and being an entrepreneur, but it was difficult to maintain steady work during that season of my life.

After marrying Michael and starting our family in my late twenties, I had to become more discerning about the jobs I took; the finances needed to make sense (i.e., be worth it) for me to be away from our boys. I remember having a week-long job on a TV show (well paid, great crew, and super fun) when my second-born was only a couple of months old. We really needed the money at the time, and I was so appreciative of the opportunity. Still, I found myself having to politely ask for the privacy of the green room (the only room on set without windows or glass walls and a door that closed) so I could pump breast milk 2-3 times a day. It was awkward and embarrassing (the actors were all quite young), and I felt alone in those moments. Who can understand the feelings of a woman in a moment like this? She is caught between two worlds–one, where she has the autonomy to make money, contribute to a larger project, and express her creative skills, and the other, where she, being physically bonded to her baby, is needed to sustain the life of her child, who must be provided for in every way possible.

This job was a turning point for me. Sometimes it takes testing the limits to find out where your boundaries are; for me, I didn’t want to take jobs that required me to be away from my newborn for 10-hour days, no matter the cost. It wasn’t that the particular job was wrong, or that I couldn’t do it; in fact, it helped us get through a tough financial patch, and I’m so grateful for that.

However, this job also gave me something else…it helped sharpen my instincts about what was best for my life. Discernment is one of those life-things that takes time to develop, and you have to go through a variety of experiences to develop a keen sense of what is right for you. Even though I enjoyed being a production makeup artist and could have continued down that path, I sensed that I wanted more out of my life. The path was good for a while, but once I learned more about myself and what I wanted in life, it no longer made sense to keep going in that direction. I was at the first of many crossroads, and I felt my life opening wide and myself ready to open up too. I made the hard decision to lay down my makeup kit and search for something else, something more.

In the letter to the Corinthians, Paul writes about the attributes of love. He says, When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put aside childish things.1 Our childhood or youthful experiences are not diminished by when they happened, as long as we are wise enough to glean good, helpful information from them to inform our future selves. My career as a makeup artist was good for a season, but once my life expanded with marriage and children and homemaking, it didn’t help to build toward the vision God had for my life, the vision He was actively calling me into (and to be honest, at times, some jobs actively worked against it). This is the process of maturing, of becoming who God has called us to be. When the grace of marriage and motherhood invaded my very shallow experience, a deep well opened up within me and filled to the brim, to overflowing, with love for my family. This love moved me, moved my desires and ambitions, and the horizon of my life stretched beyond the nearsightedness of what I had known up to that point.

Maybe you’re still in the middle of collecting yours–the information, the experiences, the moments that feel awkward or isolating or hard to make sense of. You might be standing in your own green room, or at a crossroads that doesn’t look the way you imagined. That’s okay. The data is still coming in. And slowly, you’re learning your own design.

Until next time,

SBL

I’m not advocating for a “slow life,” per se (or maybe I am). If your life looks anything like mine, we have stuff to do. To-do lists are half a page long and are categorized by areas of responsibility: personal/work/home. Google Calendar looks like a toddler went crazy with a box of crayons. Executive-level schedule syncs with my husband weekly (trying to get better about doing this on Sunday evenings and not over a mid-week dinner). It’s not that I enjoy being type-A, really, but my life demands it. We are women who are wide-awake to the life we are building, and it is wonderfully rich and overwhelmingly full.

And yet. No matter how meticulously we organize our homes, scroll through Pinterest boards with inspiring quotes, or do whatever makes us feel like we are living aspirationally for a few minutes, there is still an undercurrent of dissonant feeling that, like the great David Byrne once sang, finds its way into our most private thoughts:

“And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife/And you may ask yourself, ‘Well… how did I get here?’”

As a representative of the oldest generation of Millennials (hi, welcome, we play bingo at 2pm), I’ve felt some of the disappointment of the so-called Great Millennial Career Crisis and I’ve certainly had my moments of anger and frustration that we were sold a time-share of false promises (even within the church, but that’s a conversation for another day). I’m over the word “intentional” because it’s become a meme–the crunchy, gentle parenting mom, quietly crying as she packs a gluten-free bento box for little Apple’s forest school lunch. But what else do I mean by this? It’s more than intentionality, more than putting effort into something and hoping the universe responds with kindness (lol, good luck). You’re not weak, or failing, or whatever lie has taken root in your heart–this feeling that your life is not working, that the treadmill is speeding up, or, like your poor back after a night of bad sleep, something is just off…this is an important signal.

I’m convinced that our bodies will often tell us the truth before our minds and hearts are caught up. In my late-thirties, I was working full-time in a high-pressure job that was remote (with travel), while also managing a house and raising three young sons. I worked (and lived) in a high-rpm mode for a long time until I started noticing physical symptoms that I’d never dealt with before: most mornings, I would wake to a sore jaw and dull headache. The tension became worse, and I started dealing with insomnia, going to sleep at my normal time, but waking up around 2 or 3 am and not being able to fall back asleep for a couple of hours. These symptoms compounded and started to affect my entire life–my creativity and ability to show up for my team, my ability to rest and recuperate, and most importantly, they were affecting my marriage and family life.

This was the moment that got my attention–I couldn’t “power through” this season as I’d done before, no, I needed to take a step back and really assess what was happening. I needed to get immediate help for the physical symptoms I was facing, but I also needed to be honest about what choices I was making for my life. What was most important to me? Was I building my life in a way that actually upheld those priorities, or was I getting caught up in the action of the moment? These physical signals were not signs of weakness, but of misalignment.

After months of intense reflection, prayer, and one particularly heated argument (with Michael, truly my better half) at a seafood restaurant, I had to get honest with myself. I was tired of feeling swept along in the current of busyness. There were times it was like I was fighting against the very things I had on my list of priorities–being a present mother, cultivating a deep relationship with my husband, doing work that held personal significance and a positive impact on others. There was a very real tension in the pit of my stomach: even though my life looked “great” from the outside, I was missing the whole point.

The current state of Western culture loudly and persistently affirms certain versions of the “good life” and tries to sell it to us for a price. But if you had the chance to turn all of that noise off for a few days (or weeks), could you answer the question: what is your good life?

And an even deeper question: What are the values underpinning the vision of your good life?

You see, our values are what drive our decisions. We (often unconsciously) live day in and day out by our values without even naming them.

If you took a survey of your normal, everyday life, isolated a few key actions, practices, or behaviors, and analyzed them with as much objectivity as possible, what could you learn? For instance, what makes you get up before the sun rises? What feeling do you get when you leave an event early to go home? Why does an hour at your painting easel (or reading an academic paper) fly by in an instant? What are these clues telling you about your own life? You are living by a code already; is it the one you want shaping your life?

I believe that we were designed as people, and specifically as women, with extreme care, intelligence, and love by an infinitely wise God. This belief was formed over years of study of scripture, teaching within the church (and the academy), and my own lived experience. So, because this is my foundational belief about how I was made, when I found myself facing my looming fortieth birthday (and those persistent symptoms), I was free to get curious about what those specific signals meant in my life. When I went through this difficult season of not sleeping and daily chronic pain, it became a conduit for real-life transformation–the signals were showing me the boundaries of my own life.

In his 1929 apologetic book on why he is Catholic, G.K. Chesterton famously said,

“Don’t ever take a fence down until you know the reason why it was put up.”

With this statement, Chesterton is simply restating the wisdom literature of Proverbs: “Do not move an ancient boundary stone set up by your ancestors” (22:28, NIV). We live in a culture that is obsessed with the future, and with unrestricted “growth” or “evolution” or change, and often this is to our detriment; there is great benefit to looking to the past and asking good questions like,

Why was this fence put up? What might my forebears have known about life that I don’t know yet? Why is this limitation here, in my body, my time, my understanding? If I cannot change this boundary or limitation, am I willing to trust a God that put it there by design?

I am very much still on this journey. It’s the real work, underneath all the action…the quiet inward groaning of spiritual growth pains. Are we paying attention? Can we take the language of failure and redeem it for a wealth of learning? There is a better way than the one we’re sold online, and I think it starts closer to home than we expect.

Until next time,

SBL

It took me four months to read Crime and Punishment, which, of course, I’m not proud of, though I did finish it with the help of Audible during my daily commute.1 In my defense, for whatever inane reason, I chose to start this book right as I was beginning a new job. Not just any job, but one some might call a “dream opportunity,” and one that required me to be in the office five days a week (long days bookended by a 40-55 min commute). No complaints necessarily, just setting the bleak, cold, Russian-like tundra of a scene for your reading amusement (sarcasm).

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The book has a daunting reputation, which I felt acutely, but my desire to read and understand Dostoyevsky eventually overcame the general mind-bend, and I bought a copy. Two, actually. I bought two copies, which I didn’t realize until months later, when I finished the book and went to re-shelve the cracked-spine Penguin Classics paperback and saw an identical, pristine copy already there. Huh. Okay, so the task was done. I conquered the scary Russian, and now he rests silently beside other old passkeys to other old worlds. His world, Dostoyevsky’s world, I am still simmering over, though I think I understand it more now that a little time has passed. Some stories are like a hard rain on the cold winter ground; they need time and space to seep in slowly and go deep, all the way to the roots.

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Intermission: I have just finished a short run at a job that triggers complicated feelings. I’m probably not ready to process it, but I am a writer, and when the words are ready, I’ve learned to let it flow. (Still, this is difficult.) My writing brain has been logged off for six months. I’m trying to reboot, but everything I say here isn’t right, too thin, too heavy, cringe. Bear with me.

With the recent turn in my career, I thought that I knew the unfolding of circumstances was ordered by God. I was called into a new realm and at a new level. I answered and experienced this thing, this great opportunity, but then it was costly–it cost me things I eventually couldn’t keep paying. A character in a book would move seamlessly into a new season without the cost, but a person in real life has layers of things she brings with her, and some things do not work within the new context. It’s complicated because many of these things were good, are good, and are people that I love the most, and they’re priorities in my life. So it felt like I was constantly having to choose between what was most demanding and what was actually important to me. Competing priorities–of myself, and of the opportunity.

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Not to sound self-important, but I have been given so many amazing opportunities to do and experience things that most people would find unfamiliar, and I am grateful for each one. They color the days and shape the years into a tapestry of varied experience. But when the opportunity or job comes to an end (because very little in my life, aside from our family and the steadfast love of God, continues in perpetuity), there are big emotions, sometimes painful ones. Experiences that feel akin to failure. I have written about the “f word” before because the theme tries to rear its ugly head often; I don’t want to associate with that word. Someone who loves me very much insists that I rephrase; instead of “failure,” I will say “learnings.” As in, I’ve not failed at this job, I’ve learned more about what I want to do and what I don’t want to do. Instead of, “Well, that was a total waste of time and a failed experiment,” it becomes, “What kinds of learnings can I take away from this experience?” Anyways, I am moving through another one of these “learning” seasons.

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There is a quality about Dostoyevsky’s main character that makes me wonder about the author himself, about what kind of inner demons he faced during his time, and how much of this particular protagonist was autobiographical. I found his character, the young and flailing academic Rodion Raskolnikov, to be irritating–his depression and grandiose self-absorption were so relentless that entering his world felt like being slowly dragged to the bottom of the Cumberland River. And yet, I needed to see what happened…I had to journey with him all the way to the end of the story.

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The novel is set in mid-nineteenth-century St. Petersburg (incidentally, the first foreign city that I traveled to and fell in love with at the age of fifteen), a tumultuous city both dreary and alive, crowded with industrial smog and horses and the pressing masses, and straining with the tension of the old ways being pushed aside in the name of progress. Raskolnikov lives hidden and isolated among the multitude, inwardly estranged from humanity by his delusional nihilism. For hours, sometimes days, he lies silent and starving, gradually becoming a prisoner of his own warped mind and the weight of his sin. The young man faces his future with a bleak outlook; his only hope of finding meaning in his unique life hangs in the air, like steam rising from the hot stone streets. Raskolnikov hungers for the thing that every man throughout history has sought, through various and bloody means: a purpose, a divine call, one that transcends and endures (even beyond our own short life). Like all timeless stories, Crime and Punishment feels like it could happen today, even now. If you have not read the novel yet, I won’t spoil it, but I will offer this tip: the beginning is wonderfully exciting, the middle is a slog (but important for developing the psychology of Raskolnikov and other characters), and the end will leave you mulling over it all for a good long while.

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I know little about Dostoyevsky as a person; that is a research project for another time. What I do know comes through his storytelling. He lived during an era of great transition, when the Church and those who still sincerely called themselves Christian were becoming increasingly irrelevant in the face of modernity. Yet the deeper human impulse has not changed. His characters hunger for the kind of immortality that we see awarded to digital natives every day via YouTube, TikTok, and a riptide of internet fame. Raskolnikov’s temptation is nothing new–in the worlds we create online, we assume the divine role, imagining we can transcend natural laws because we see ourselves as special, unique, and evolved. The old world is always dying, and the new horizon always promises more than it can deliver.

​In his classic work, My Utmost for His Highest, Oswald Chambers writes extensively about calling and, in his uncompromising and pastoral way, confronts our obsession with little-gods psychology. In the devotional essay, “The Vocation of the Natural Life,” he draws a distinction between God’s calling of the believer (to Christ, His Son) and our natural abilities that we may offer in service to this greater call.2 I find this counter to our era’s thinking (even among church circles) and so helpful.

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Chambers draws from Paul’s writing to the Galatians, “But when it pleased God…to reveal His Son in me that I might preach Him among the Gentiles…” (1:15-16, italics added). The importance here is the right sequence of calling, and Paul writes it out as such (as in most things, God is extremely concerned with the order of creation because everything has been intentionally designed for His glory and our good). God called Paul to recognize and submit to His Son as Lord, and this is of the highest order. Then, Paul offered his natural abilities back to Christ in service by preaching to the Gentiles. The call did not emphasize the action (or burden) of preaching per se, but rather its primary purpose: to put Paul in right relationship with God, which freed him to respond in humble service (through preaching, traveling, pastoring, writing, etc.)

Chambers says,

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Service is the overflow of superabounding devotion…God gets me into a relationship with Himself whereby I understand His call, then I do things out of sheer love for Him on my own account. The Son of God reveals Himself in me, and I serve Him in the ordinary way of life out of devotion to Him.3

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And it’s one of those paradoxes of the Christian life; that when we respond to Christ and call Him Lord, our obedience unlocks a new kind of freedom to lose ourselves in Him. We don’t have to strive by the world’s ways of distinguishing ourselves in society…we are no longer bound to the systems and metrics of tiny-thinking humans who try to measure the depth of an individual person and quantify him/her for small ends. The trap of Raskolnikov’s worldview still remains; the actual world is too vast and chaotic, so we create our own artificial ones and become little faux-christs who moan and complain about having to die every day in our self-made realities. Even among the churches, “the calling” becomes a black hole burden when it turns inward.

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​In a climactic scene of the novel, our man Raskolnikov carries the yoke of his sin, that “crushing weight…from the hopeless despair and anxiety of all this recent time,” out into public, where it becomes physically visible in him.4 Something finally breaks inside of him, and the people nearby witness the moment and respond with mocking shouts as he drops to his knees in the center of the city. “He kneeled in the middle of the square, bowed down to the earth and kissed that dirty earth, with pleasure and happiness. He got up and bowed down a second time.”5 Raskolnikov’s internal compass is being shattered and refashioned; the scales fall from his eyes to the dirt. In relinquishing the illusion of control over his life and the nightmare of his own making, his vision opens wide, and hope enters like a bright, harsh winter light, washing away despair and making his heart clean and alive.

I don’t pretend to understand everything about this story, or about the contemporary search for meaning in our technocratic twenty-first-century world, but I am learning to read Dostoyevsky’s literary language for truth that I can take with me. (Quick note: If you’d like a more in-depth analysis of Dostoyevsky’s work and the topic of nihilism, please check out my friend and the most excellent Dr. Chris Palmer’s short course here.)

At the very least, Dostoyevsky exposes and diminishes the power of an encroaching nihilistic worldview, both in his generation and in ours, one that entices with a counterfeit freedom of rejecting the natural order God established in the beginning. His characters can’t bear the weight of their own broken moral compasses, much less the suffering of others, because that is how we are. We all face our own inner Napoleons. We are shamefully limited, and yet, we long for the glory of something truly great. Like children who attempt to run away, and after a time of hunger and cold and lonely hours, we begin to see that our freedom is found in answering the call back to the Father’s house. By coming under His reign and rule, we inherit the abundance of true happiness, peace, joy, and the fullness of His Spirit offered for us. From this vantage point, even the dirty earth becomes blessed.

​“Sometimes saying yes to a call means saying no to something else.”6 These words could not have cut deeper into my heart, because their truth has rung through my recent weeks and months. Where my vision has become too narrow and small, I sense the Holy Spirit asking me to relinquish more (all of it, actually) in the name of freedom. To welcome God’s economy as something totally different from what we can see in the natural (bigger, more expansive, infinitely more creative) and giving purpose even to those experiences that we don’t understand. Saying yes to the calling of God is so much higher and deeper than the vocation we offer to Him in service because the continual yes is to Him, Christ, the person of God. And in Him nothing is wasted, and everything is beautiful.

​Until next time,

SBL

I’ve already written a longer, more thoughtful post about our time in Paris [link here], so hop over there if you’re in the mood for a deeper dive. But if you’re here for something a little lighter—on style, culture, and whatnot—hang tight.

These are my travel notes, jotted quickly into my iPhone Notes app while finding a bit of reprieve at a café in Paris. I don’t believe in gatekeeping, so here was our daily haunt: highly recommend the oeufs mayo with a Spritz.

Notes from an American in Paris:

• I didn’t need to pack my curling iron…it stayed in my suitcase the entire trip (see: undone/bedhead is the look). This air-dry mouse was all that I needed for texture.

• Speaking in generalities, the Parisian look is chic but understated. Clothing is high-quality, thoughtful, and sometimes edgy, but the styling is undone and cool—messy hair, low-key or no makeup, interesting jewelry, great shoes, and little touches like scarves and charms. It’s both more serious (about beauty and style) and more nonchalant (don’t look too put-together or like you’re trying too hard) at the same time.

• Coffee is a way of being present, not jet fuel. Never saw a to-go cup in anyone’s hand. If you want a coffee while you are out, make the time to go sit down at a café and enjoy it. (Kinda missed my cold brew though.)

• It was unusually hot the week we visited (highs in the low 80’s F), so the 2 jackets I packed stayed in my suitcase (sadly, bc they are cuties). What I really needed was a pair of chic shorts or a skirt. Also, I saw several women doing the Scandi-girl structured long shorts + tall boots combo, so that’s still a thing this year. Men in shorts, on the other hand…looked dumb. Definitely not Parisian.

  

  

  

  

• Bringing magnesium and melatonin was a good call. My legs ached at the end of the night from so much walking, so the magnesium helped my body relax. And I needed the melatonin on the second night when I was wide awake from 1-4am (…then slept until 10).

• We slept in every morning, but it kind of worked for us (also: vacation). Dinners were later than we are used to (our reservations were usually around 9pm) and we didn’t wind down for the night until after midnight, so our day just shifted about 3 hours later.

• It’s much quieter than I expected, to be in the middle of a large city. We stayed on a 1st floor (one above the ground floor) apartment with lots of windows on a side street and it was very quiet at night especially. I only heard a siren a few times and the volume is nothing compared to the constant din of a city like New York.

  

  

  

• On language: most people spoke some English, but we always respectfully started with French. If you can learn a slang phrase, it will usually catch the other person off guard and make them laugh, which is always a good tactic, I think (humans love to be surprised, no?) and then you can apologize for not knowing more French and ask to switch to English.

• The French sensibility is understated, so expressing emotions in conversation is more like, “I enjoyed this dinner, it was fine” rather than a gushing “omg this was the BEST THING IVE EVER TASTED” —even if it truly was.

  

  

• The city is très belle, and beauty can be found everywhere (we couldn’t see every area, of course). The parks, architecture, statues, boutiques, cafes, churches, museums, all of it, in every corner, there is something beautiful to see and enjoy.

• Multiculturalism is God’s idea. He loves variety and distinction and color and contrast. Globalism waters everything down into a dull grey copy of copies of diminishing uniqueness. Nationalism (in the best sense) preserves community identity and cultural artifacts.

• I forgot how much I feel like myself in Europe. It’s a pace of life that just suits me.

• A perfect croissant is worth the airfare, la fin. xo

  

April marked the fulfillment of a lifelong dream with a week’s vacation to Paris with Michael. Although we’ve both lived in Europe at different points, neither of us had been to Paris before, so sharing that first experience together made it all the more meaningful. We ate our way through the city, lingered in parks, marveled at the architecture, and ended each day with sore feet and full hearts. In between the adventures, we spent long hours talking, praying, and seeking the Lord’s guidance for our family and future.

Every morning, Michael would head out to find us breakfast—usually from Mamiche, because they’re simply the best (and conveniently just around the corner from our apartment, #blessed). Once we were dressed and ready, we’d set out for the day, wandering through the arrondissements and exploring shops, cafés, museums, and parks as the mood struck. Paris is like the proverbial croissant…layered, rich, and endlessly indulgent. Around every corner is a new vignette of beauty. As you walk the cobblestone streets, centuries of cultivated society lie beneath your feet and rise up around you in the form of stately 18th- and 19th-century buildings. Inside, medieval paintings line the walls, quietly commanding your attention—if only for a moment, or maybe much longer.

On our last day in Paris, Michael and I took a trip to Versailles. The sheer scale and opulence of the palace (and its two-thousand-acre gardens) were overwhelming, but in the best way. I’d dreamed of visiting ever since Sofia Coppola’s 2006 film Marie Antoinette left an imprint on my twenty-three-year-old imagination (and yes, that soundtrack is still everyyything!). We took a half-hour train ride to the town of Versailles on Saturday morning and spent the day touring the palace and gardens, enjoying a long lunch, and exploring Marie Antoinette’s separate house and farmstead—while a freak hailstorm hammered the roof for about fifteen surreal minutes (video below, sound on for atmosphere).

While at Versailles, we had the pleasure of viewing Paolo Veronese’s (1528-1588) epic painting, The Feast in the House of Simon the Pharisee (1570), which is approximately 476 square feet large and covers a wall of the Hercules Salon of Versailles (placed in 1712).

You can view the painting in detail here (click the image and zoom in to see even better).

The enormity of the painting immediately captures your attention, but it’s the layered complexity of the image that draws you in like a great film. With so many characters and action taking place at once, it demands, not only your attention, but your time. A minute or two spent studying the table on the left, a few more to notice that the man in black on the right is likely dressed in the artist’s contemporary fashion, and then a long, reverent pause to reflect on Mary as she anoints Jesus’s feet.

Veronese was known for his large scale scenes from the gospels, including one of the Last Supper that got him into hot water with the Inquisition. This one (above) however is a depiction of the dinner party at Simon the Pharisee’s house, six days before the Passover, and one of Jesus’s final meals with his disciples. The event is recorded in all four gospels (Matthew 26:6–13, Mark 14:3–9, Luke 7:36–50, and John 12:1–8) with various details giving color to each account. In the detail image above, we see Jesus conversing with Simon (in the foreground, wearing clothing made of luxurious fabric, and gripping the arm of his chair in an anxious pose) as Mary is bent low, washing the Lord’s feet with her tears and hair. We may also notice the vessel containing the expensive perfume tipped over to show us that it is empty.

In this scene, some of the disciples were grumbling and complaining that the financial value of the perfume COULD HAVE BEEN USED FOR MINISTRY, JESUS! Why don’t you stop her? Plus, she’s like a prostitute or something! How do you even know such a woman?!

At this point, Jesus engages Simon in a discourse. He tells a simple parable:

“A certain moneylender had two debtors. One owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. When they could not pay, he cancelled the debt of both. Now which of them will love him more?”

Simon answered, “The one, I suppose, for whom he cancelled the larger debt.”

And he said to him, “You have judged rightly.”

Then turning toward the woman he said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not ceased to kiss my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore I tell you, her sins, which are many, are forgiven—for she loved much. But he who is forgiven little, loves little.”

And he said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”

Then those who were at table with him began to say among themselves, “Who is this, who even forgives sins?”

And [Jesus] said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

Luke 7:41-50, ESV

The trouble with art is that it viscerally confronts my idol of pragmatism.

Most of my days consist of Getting Things Done™ and, while I know this is necessary as a wife/mother/contributor-to-society, the task-oriented nature of my life (and probably, my personal inclination) has a way of shaping my internal landscape. It’s like my brain has a running equation of how much time and money something requires compared to it’s supposed inherent value (while my heart is tuned into a completely different frequency). But why do I fall for the trick of believing that I can even know, objectively, the value of a moment or the thing produced or the outcome?

William James, brother to novelist Henry James, and early 20th century psychologist, said in his book, Pragmatism (1907),

“The true is only the expedient in the way of our thinking, just as the right is only the expedient in the way of our behaving. Expedient in almost any fashion, and expedient in the long run and on the whole, of course.”

James erroneously believed that truth is not fixed or absolute, and his arrogant (and temporal) way of thinking drove a century of philosophy into the ground. Pragmatism is a philosophy that sounds practical at first blush—what is “true” and “right” will eventually prove itself out over time and circumstance. And from the Christian’s perspective, this can be true, because God’s design for morality and ethics does prove itself out over time to be for the good and flourishing of humanity, but only because what is actually true and right are already predetermined by an absolute source.

Which is why the disciple’s complaint against Mary’s extravagance hits a nerve.

How dare this woman—of all women, with her reputation—choose to pour out perfume worth $50,000 on Jesus’ head and feet (and all over the floor), and not only that, but also release a lifetime of sorrow and longing to be truly loved, openly weeping and washing him with her tears?

I hate to admit it, but I probably would have been thinking the same judgey thoughts: What a waste of resources! Why is she interrupting this important dinner party and being so embarrassing…can we get someone to take care of this woman?

But here is something the Holy Spirit confronted me with recently — pragmatism is the enemy of worship.

Did Mary know that her actions were aligned with the bigger story of what God was doing? Probably not.

Jesus knew the disciples were irritated at the whole situation, and he said to them:

“Why do you trouble the woman? For she has done a beautiful thing to me…In pouring this ointment on my body, she has done it to prepare me for burial.” (Matt. 26:10-11)

No one, not Simon or Judas or Mary, knew what was coming in less than a week’s time. They could not have known the horror or triumph that would unfold according to God’s will and purposes. But Jesus knew, and he flipped their earthly and pragmatic mindset on it’s head, and spoke of Mary’s unbridled adoration as something so beautiful and enduring, that

“Truly, I say to you, wherever this gospel is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will also be told in memory of her.” (Matt. 26:13)

I feel this tension often—the pull between a pragmatic mindset and the call to a poured-out life of worship. Do you? Paris was a kind of wake-up call. God has created a world brimming with beauty and delight, meant for our good. But too often, I’m moving too fast, too focused on the “usefulness” of everything, to even notice. As a generation, we’ve been numbed by a utilitarian deception. We’ve traded the richness of God’s abundance for a transactional way of living.

But then…a giant painting stops me in my tracks. What the artist spent years creating, never knowing the impact it would carry through the centuries, leaves an image in my mind I can’t shake, even days later.

Mary, pouring it all out at Jesus’s feet.
The "wastefulness" of worship.

This is what we’re invited into: to slow down, open our hands, and offer everything—our beauty, our longing, our time, our tears—to Him. Not because it’s efficient, but because He is worthy.

Until next time,

SBL

I’m “doing Lent” for the first time in my adult life. This really just means I’m joining the long tradition of the Church—the great cloud of witnesses—by following the Christian calendar and paying closer attention to the spiritual significance of seasons like Advent, Lent, and Easter.

I grew up in the non-denominational, 80s and 90s American charismatic stream of Christianity, and I was educated in the public school system, where anything remotely religious was largely ignored. So, I honestly didn’t even know what a “church calendar” was until I moved to London at 18 and began attending an Anglican church. Since then, I’ve spent years reading, listening, and learning—trying to shape a worldview rooted first in Scripture and tradition, with my personal experience as an important but secondary guide. The Christian life is multi-faceted, but the order in which we receive truth and live it out matters. Tradition helps orient us; we don’t have to start from scratch.

When my boys were little babies, we began observing Advent together—reading prayers and poems, lighting candles, and learning to anticipate the coming of our Savior into the world. It felt easy and enjoyable, like layering something sacred and warm onto our already beloved Christmas rhythms. But Lent is different.

Lent is also a season of anticipation, but it comes by subtraction, not addition. It is a stripping away—a deliberate removal of the crutches, the leeches, the twisted growths that cling to us like invasive vines and threaten to choke out the seed of Christ in our hearts. In these 40 days leading up to Easter, we are invited to follow Jesus into the wilderness, to shine light on what’s hidden and harmful, and to seek the help of the Holy Spirit to overcome it—because we know we cannot do it alone.

Historically, Lent has been a season set aside for prayer, fasting, and reflection, culminating in the joy and glory of Resurrection Sunday. My friend Corne says this about it,

The early Church saw Lent as a season of preparation, a time to strip away distractions and focus entirely on Christ’s journey to the cross. It was never meant to be a legalistic burden but an invitation to deeper communion with God. In a world that rushes past reflection and glorifies busyness, Lent offers us something countercultural: a call to slow down, to be still, and to remember.

He’s right to call it countercultural. Our global internet culture offers a spectrum of busyness, from hustle-at-all-costs ambition to the self-glorifying pursuit of “me time”—with barely a glance toward God. Even among the wellness influencers who champion rest and reflection, there’s little attention given to shining an intentional light on the parts of our lives that stifle real spiritual growth—and even less mention of repentance.

It’s clear: the way of a disciple must be different.

One of my Lenten practices this year is reading the late Eugene Peterson’s A Long Obedience in the Same Direction. In it, Peterson describes repentance as “a no that is a yes”—a firm rejection of the flesh, the world, and the enemy of our souls, in order to say a wholehearted yes to the life of God within us. He writes, “The usual biblical word describing the no we say to the world’s lies and the yes we say to God’s truth is repentance. It is always and everywhere the first word in the Christian life.”1

Lent, then, becomes our invitation to embrace that often painful no—not for its own sake, but for the sake of a holy yes.

This spring has felt different—quieter, with fewer outside obligations and more space for inward (Lenten) reflection. There’s time now for reading, soccer games, swim lessons, roast chicken dinners, daily walks down the driveway, and long, meandering phone calls with friends. I’m feeling the full weight of the “middle” part of this life, and honestly, the pace is both breakneck and excruciatingly slow. It’s not all buttercups and breezy afternoons—some days bring unrelenting storms. And yet, I’m hopeful. As every spring since the beginning of time has promised, growth is coming. This is the season for seeds to take root. The beauty will come in time.

Speaking of beauty—if you are searching for a way to deepen your appreciation for truth, beauty, and goodness, you may want to subscribe to Novo Modo. It’s streaming content crafted to equip and inspire the creative believer, even if you aren’t in an official ministry position. Think: a bite sized musing on why beauty matters, or a long form course on the theology of worship. There is a collective awakening happening in the body of Christ right now around the importance of beauty and this is the perfect way to join in that movement.

We are a little less than two weeks until Easter, so there is still plenty of time to begin observing Lent. Would you spend some time in prayer today and ask God how He would like you to do that? I know He will guide you and breathe new life into you by His Spirit over this season. And if you are already observing Lent, shoot me an email or leave a comment and let me know how it’s going!

Until next time,

SBL

A Reflection from the Archives. First published Jan. 5th, 2018.

I was awake again, this time around 2:30am. My (almost) three month old was going through a growth spurt, and combined with a tiny congested nose, he and I were not getting much sleep. As I nursed him back to sleep, my mind played a reel of the work I was able to accomplish from the day and wrestled with the things that were left undone.

The familiar feeling of disappointment combined with a low-grade anxiety started to creep in the shadows of my heart, when a thought popped up out of nowhere.

Saying “No” to some things, means that I’m actually saying a wholehearted “Yes!” to others.

Of course! Why hadn’t I seen it from this perspective before? It was so obvious. It was so freeing!

Saying “No” in the right context, with the purpose to preserve something else precious, is a gift in disguise to us high-achievers. While it might sting like failure in the moment, it can actually be the thing that protects, prolongs, and produces fruit in another area of our lives.

The real challenge here (for myself, and maybe for you too?) is to still our hearts, to listen, and to zero-in on the work that the Lord has called us to for this season. What is in front of me right now? Who has He allowed me to come alongside? While I might have my own ideas about which direction to take my day, my responsibility is to submit all before Him and follow His lead.

“The Good Shepherd”

The Lord is my shepherd;
there is nothing I lack.
He lets me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside quiet waters.
He renews my life;
He leads me along the right paths
for His name’s sake.
Even when I go through the darkest valley, I fear no danger
for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff—they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Only goodness and faithful love will pursue me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
as long as I live.

Ps. 23 (HCSB)

Having the freedom to say “No” to that extra project means that I am saying “Yes” to the ones that I’ve already committed to.

Saying “No” to that social gathering means that I am saying “Yes” to time with my family.

Saying “No” to time wasted in lifeless work or self-centered busyness or mind-numbing entertainment means that I am saying “Yes” to something better!

Even the so-called spiritual or churchy things must go before the throne.

A breathed prayer and I silently ask in the secret place of my heart—is this what you’ve called me to, Lord? Is this contributing to (or taking away from) your purpose for my life?

My prayer is for a clear channel between His heart and mine. That I can discern *in the moment* what is of true importance and what can wait (Ps. 119:125).

Good Shepherd, help us to be led by your loving hand, even in our saying “No.”

A Lifeline in Letters

When I read East of Eden for the first time, I was going through what they call “a hard time.” I lived alone and worked early hours, rising before the sun to be the first to open a little neighborhood coffee shop. The winter sun–when she finally graced the horizon–was distant and aloof. I didn’t mind, though. She was consistent in all of her modes, and that was enough.

The cafe was dark when I arrived, and the keys were cold in my hands. I let myself inside and turned on the kitchen light, the only burning light on a street still asleep. My feet shuffled across the worn wooden floors. The only sound to break the comfortable silence was the coffee maker dripping. I filled carafes with cold cream and placed fresh bagels on display plates, still warm from the baker. In a matter of short time, this room would be filled with people waking up, greeting one another, chattering on their phones, and tick-tacking away on their laptops. I would not be alone for another nine hours, at the least.

The novel lived in my tote bag to the detriment of its paperback cover. But I couldn’t bear to leave it at home in case a rare opportunity presented itself–say, sitting between the recycling and ashtrays on the back stoop during a ten-minute break with just enough time to slip into the story and completely lose my bearings. The trance was broken as soon as a friendly stranger would chime, “Good book, eh?” Smile, nod. Do not engage further. Refocus. Ah, only two more minutes left.

It was a hard, lonely time. It was a time to grieve deep disappointment, the scooping out of dreams like packed wet sand dissolved into nothingness. But it was not without its rare joy: pure transcendence in pockets of time, with a book in hand.

I began to see characters. Aron, and Abra, Adam and Cal. A glimpse of eye contact with a stranger or the tone of someone’s voice, and I know who it is–and I am thrilled by a brief encounter with the people from my other world. It seems natural, expected. Of course, they would come visit me! I try to tell someone I work with, the other woman around my age, the one with short hair and a booming laugh. I want her to know my friends, and that their story matters. She nods her head in my direction, but her eyes shift away, looking toward the opening and closing door.

The world of the imagination, of language and meaning, holds promise for those who are flailing. When a certain phrase is read, or a scene of the story takes shape in the mind, and it gives definition to the unique pain a person alone knows, hope is born within the heart of the heartbroken. After all, we are not lost because we find new beginnings with the turning of the page.

When I am reading, I know what I have to do, what I am required to do. There, I must simply pay attention, keep going, and receive the reward in time. Here, I pull another shot of espresso and wipe the counter again. I glance at the clock and sigh. Three hours remain until I can retreat into myself, my imagination, the portal to a place where I have a clear purpose. Here, my life has shrunk to a bare-bones existence; there, the horizons burn endlessly like a California sunset.

"There’s more beauty in truth, even if it is dreadful beauty."

I couldn’t see it then, but I know now that a book can be a lifeline. While my own life was slowly unraveling, I clung to a story of family, homeland, and complicated redemption. Steinbeck didn’t write East of Eden for me, but it felt like he did, back then.

That was about fifteen years ago. Doesn’t it feel like every decade is its own lifetime? I can reach back to when five-pound glossy fashion magazines and homemade music zines filled my backpack instead of textbooks…and even further back when my early exploration of the world came through children’s books (and notepads and pencils with cartoon cats). These are just as vivid in my memory as my flesh-and-blood companions. Time is nearly indefinable except by the life of the mind, what kept my imagination alive–what kept me going. The reading life is as good as any (and maybe better) for marking time, growth, pain, and delight.

Steinbeck supposedly also said (although I couldn’t find the source),

“Books are the best friends you can have; they inform you, and entertain you, and they don't talk back.”

I’ve found them to be quite like friends in real life: some are faithful, some are fickle, some disappear and you desperately miss them.

A Coram Deo Curated List of Stories to Enjoy as a Family

My oldest son turns thirteen this week. Lord, I don’t even know what to think about that, except that the last (nearly) fourteen years of knowing him, from a faint flutter in my womb to the young man he is rapidly becoming, has passed so quickly that I can barely catch my breath. I sometimes worry about the world he is growing up in and the dragons he will have to face soon enough, but I don’t worry too much about him; he has a strong will, a solid moral center, and he is eager to rise to the occasion of his life. He also has a quick sense of humor, and he loves to read. What more could a mother want?

I sometimes feel like I have fewer ways to connect with my three sons than my husband does (due to my lack of interest in video games, sports, general dude life experience), but good storytelling is one area which we all find common ground. When deciding what kind of book or movie I want to encourage our boys to read/watch, I generally use a razor of Christian transcendentals—does this story cultivate a love for truth, beauty, and goodness? Does it have a hopeful, redemptive storyline? Does it play by the rules of Natural law and God’s created order? These are helpful guidelines in thinking about any genre of art, even genres that may seem ‘non-conformist’ at first blush, like science fiction, fantasy, and fairy tales (some of my personal favorites!)

I won’t preface this list with too many disclaimers, other than to say (at the time of writing) our son’s ages range from 7 to (almost) 13 and we have a pretty moderate-to-high tolerance for violence (hello, boy house).

Here are some of our family’s favorites if you’re looking to curate a similar reference list:

Narnia series (books, audiobooks, and movies - all wonderful!)

The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (books and movies) & The Hobbit

Harry Potter series

The Princess Bride

Star Wars movie franchise & The Mandalorian (best of the TV series, imo)

True Grit (book by Charles Portis & 2010 Coen brothers movie)

The Wilderking Trilogy and The Green Ember series

The Princess and the Goblin & The Princess and Curdie (and other short fairy tales by MacDonald, like The Giants Heart & The Light Princess)

Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, Five Children and It (1902 novel by E. Nesbit, not the horrible movie adaptation)

Thirteen Clocks, The Phantom Tollbooth, A Wrinkle in Time

Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, The Sign of the Beaver

Abel’s Island, The Borrowers, and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle

and so many more…

I’ve started an Amazon list here for easy reference!

What is Mythopoeic Storytelling?

I’ve included a few of my favorites of George MacDonald’s fairy tales above because I think that is the best place to start with him. After a long preamble in the Anthology about MacDonald not being in the “first rank” (or even the second! lol, literary burn) of The Greats in Literature, Lewis explains,

“What he does best is fantasy—fantasy that hovers between the allegorical and the mythopoeic. And this, in my opinion, he does better than any man.”1

I reference MacDonald’s fairy tales so often because they are a primary example of this kind of story—not strict allegory (look to Bunyan’s Pilgrim Progress for this) but yet, they are pregnant with spiritual meaning. If myths are stories that bestow what is True, the mythopoeic storyteller is one who holds a (golden?) compass pointing at the transcendent and, ultimately, at eternity. The story itself can be made up of any kind of material, but the heart of it will reference something beyond ourselves and outside of time. “Literary mythmakers,” the late Rolland Hein writes, “are successful when, working for the most part within the more congenial atmosphere of fantasy or fairy tales, their works stir the human spirit with visions of higher anagogic realities.”2

Hein goes on to explore how myth allows us to slip into kairos time (opposing chronological time, which rules our daily experience by the clock)—a kind of outside-of-ourselves experience when we become so completely absorbed into a story that “we lose consciousness of ourself; it is as though the self is extinguished, and we become the other.”3 Reading allows us to live by kairos time—however brief the moment—and the mythopoeic story ushers deep spiritual insight to penetrate the heart, to elevate our thinking to a higher plane, and they mark us forever. Did Steinbeck know he was writing a mythopoeic novel as he typed away at his desk? I doubt it, although he commented about writing East of Eden,

“The craft or art of writing is the clumsy attempt to find symbols for the wordlessness.”4

The myth, or the story within, begins as a revelation, an image in the mind and heart that must be conveyed somehow; for Lewis, is was a lonely lamppost in the middle of a snowy wood. The image is wordlessness until we scratch together a way to describe the image with the meager means of language. And in the work of the imagination, a story is written, and myth lives on.

Like a Child

In one of his final essays, The Fantastic Imagination (1893), MacDonald poses that question that every parent reading a story aloud to their children has inwardly wondered, “Suppose my child asks me what the fairytale means, what am I to say?”5

And here we come to the crux of MacDonald’s philosophy (and perhaps his theology) on the Imagination; if we don’t grasp a clear meaning from a story, do we pretend that we do and lie to our children for the sake of seeming intelligent? Do we care so much for our pride? God forbid! We simply and humbly answer that we do not know what it means.

And in that moment, we are brought low, to the posture of a child: wondering, curious, not understanding, but yet dazzled with the hope of one day grasping the meaning. MacDonald assures us that it is “not so much to convey a meaning as to wake a meaning,” and our receiving the story has more to do with the state of our heart, rather than the understanding of the mind.6 What imprint does the story leave on us? Does it shift our perspective or birth new ideas within? Do we feel a fresh wind of hope or the warmth of divine love? We take away what we need, at any age, and receive it as a gift of beauty and goodness. The Imagination is the translating tool, through storytelling or artmaking, which enables a transformational and lasting experience for everyone involved–writer, reader, adult, or child.

When we ‘get lost’ in a good story, we often come away from our reading with a feeling of both deep satisfaction and homesickness for something more…perfect, more real. We were made to fix our compass on this Reality and we will not be fully satisfied until we make our home in Christ, who is Truth, personified. Often, He calls us through story—the Spirit awakens our imagination and we are stirred to that higher place. Isn’t it immeasurably kind of God to reach us this way?

And as we journey home, we need artists to make works of the imagination to give us a glimpse of eternity. We need mythmakers to point the way with stories that stir the heart for truth, beauty, and goodness. We need to be parents who pass down the treasure map to our children. And we need to retain a childlikeness to receive the inheritance of that coming and final kingdom.

Until next time,

SBL

Yesterday marked four weeks of my new exercise/movement routine, and I want to tell you something about it. Stick with me for a few moments; I promise this will not turn into a wellness/get healthy/resolutions newsletter. 

In late 2023, I started myofascial/body fascia therapy to rehabilitate certain areas (jaw, neck, headache) where I was experiencing acute pain. After several sessions, I realized I needed to start incorporating regular full-body stretching and movement to reduce inflammation, maintain the progress gained from the therapy, and keep my fascia flexible and happy. So, in the spring of last year, I subscribed to a Pilates app and started moving/stretching on most days, and the pain subsided. I felt better, for sure, and I knew I was on the right track. But then life happened, as they say. Kids got sick, mom got sick. Dad traveled and then traveled again. Work started to pile up, and then the holidays hit like a tornado of activity. I lost any rhythm of intentional movement I had maintained, and now I felt depressed and defeated. Snowed under, as they say.

Then, on Christmas Eve, I’d had enough. I was sick of not moving. I convinced my family to join me on a long walk around a lake. The sun was shining and it wasn’t too cold and the ducks were obnoxious as usual (city ducks, you know). As we walked, I decided that I would not let the invisible blockers prevent me from doing what I knew I needed to do, what I wanted to do. I would solve this problem because I now had a vision of what my life could be like; I had tasted and seen that the other side was better.

Want to know what those blockers were? Get ready, because they are Deep and Profound.™

Two main blockers were preventing me from sticking with the routine. First, I was repulsed by exercise clothing. I hate how it looks, but more to the point, I hate how it feels…the suuuuper tight leggings and sports tops are miserable to get on and off. It was a dumb blocker, but was real enough to keep me from the movement. 

The second and more significant blocker was that I believed a “real” workout had to happen first thing in the day, but I am not a morning person. I would love to be a morning person! But Jesus did not make me that way, and I have to trust his good design (lol). Every day I woke up and did not exercise in the morning, I felt like a failure. Not a good way to establish a new routine. 

However, once the vision of my life with movement (and, more importantly, without pain in my jaw) became real, I knocked those blockers out like they were nothing. So what if I hated exercise clothes? I just bought a couple of pairs of sweatpants and wore whatever top I already had. The fact that I am not a morning person will probably not change at 41 years old, so I found a time slot that works for me–after I bring the boys home from school but before dinner. And as a fun bonus, two out of three of my sons often join me! 

While it might seem early to talk about how this is working for me, I just gotta say…it is working for me. I’m enjoying the movement, for sure, and how I can feel my body getting stronger and more flexible, but more than that, I feel free from the gray clouds of resistance that I dealt with for so long. They were like hovering dementors sucking the life out of any motivation I had to feel better, telling me (shallow, vapid) lies to keep me in a kind of bondage.

But you know what defeats darkness every time? The light. 

I first encountered George MacDonald, as many people do, as a character in C. S. Lewis’s novel, The Great Divorce. I was intrigued by the way the narrator described him as “a very tall man, almost a giant…an enthroned and shining god, whose ageless spirit weighed upon mine like a burden of solid gold: and yet, at the very same moment, here was an old weather-beaten man, one who might have been a shepherd…”1 The contrast was wonderful. Who was this man? Was he a metaphor for something? Was it Christ?

To my surprise, I learned that Lewis wrote the historical figure (his interpretation of) George MacDonald, his mentor, into his fictional story. The quote above aptly describes MacDonald as a person and especially captures the duality of who he was to Lewis–both a “shining god” and a “shepherd.” Lewis and MacDonald never met, but Lewis readily admits the great influence MacDonald had over his life and work: “I have never concealed the fact that I regarded him as my master; indeed I fancy I have never written a book in which I did not quote from him.”2 Perhaps then, it was inevitable that MacDonald-the-man would eventually find his way into one of Lewis’ stories.

In The Great Divorce, Lewis gives the character of MacDonald the moniker of Teacher. I love that he chose this title in particular because he could have called him many (appropriate, deserving) things: Poet, Preacher, Pastor, Prophet, Mentor, Father. But I get the sense that, for Lewis, ‘Teacher’ kind of sums up all of the other titles. MacDonald, at heart, is a teacher, and in the wide variety of his written works, he expresses his gift of teaching by consistently directing the reader’s heart, mind, and spirit to the Truth. Or, as Lewis said, “...in MacDonald it is always the voice of conscience that speaks.”3

If you are not familiar with the novel, I encourage you to read it or listen to the audiobook version (I’ve linked my favorite one above). It’s a fictional story, not theology per se–a Dantean story of a man who finds himself on a bus traveling from hell to the outer recesses of heaven. He encounters Ghosts, who are people in hell (or limbo), and Spirits, who are people in heaven. In one particular scene of the story, MacDonald-the-Teacher directs the narrator’s attention to a Ghost who had been a famous artist in life. The Ghost is discussing with a Spirit (who seems to have also been an artist in life) about the beauty of their surroundings, and as they talk, the Ghost expresses his desire to paint the surrounding landscape. The Spirit encourages the artist to not worry about painting yet but simply begin by looking around, for “Looking comes first.”4

The discussion intensifies as the Ghost isn’t satisfied to simply look or even to recall the reasons he began painting in the first place. The Spirit tries to bring his friend back to his “first love,” how he “caught glimpses of Heaven” and loved to try and translate the beauty for others. How he would “paint only as a means of telling about the light.”5 The Ghost ignores the Spirit’s invitation to “Come and see…come and feed,” and he insists that a “real artist” is only interested in the country as a means for the painting because “One grows out of that…one becomes more and more interested in paint for its own sake.”6

It becomes painfully evident that the Ghost-artist has turned to cynicism in his later days, and his vision of his creative gift has shrunk to a kind of instrumental practice of utilitarian exchange. With a joyful levity, the Spirit tries earnestly to counter the cynic’s moodiness and entice the Ghost to “come to the fountain” and drink. “It’s up there in the mountains…[its] a little like Lethe.”7 Here, the Spirit invites the Ghost to drink the purifying water (“very cold and clear”) by likening it to the Greek mythological river of the same name, which makes one forget the past life. The Ghost isn’t interested in forgetting, or drinking, or seeing. His vision for painting, for art, has narrowed to a deathly thin resemblance of what it was in the beginning.

The discussion continues until the Ghost realizes that any fame or accolades earned in life will not be recognized in Heaven, and moreover, what notoriety he gained in life has already been forgotten. This is too much for the Ghost. He becomes so upset at the idea of not being remembered for his Art that he simply vanishes.

If the Ghost had listened to the Spirit’s wisdom, he would have heard a vital warning:

“Every poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is drawn away from love of the thing he tells, to love of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot be interested in God at all but only in what they say about Him.”8

The artists (theologians?) of this ilk eventually sink so low that they only care, in a limited obsessive kind of way, about their personalities, and finally, their vision narrows only to value “nothing but their own reputations.” These poor souls have succumbed to a shrinking, self-referential mode that lacks any authenticity or originality. They have forgotten how to look, how to adore Him who is Beauty personified, and therefore, their vision begins to cloud over, and they can no longer see, capture, or communicate the true light.

Recently, I watched a thought-provoking discussion between Nathan Finochio and Jordan Holt (Candid: On Criticism via Novo Modo), where they worked through their thoughts on criticism. In their conversation, they asked good questions, like:

• Does criticism have a place in the church?

• Does it tear down what God is doing, or is it necessary for growth and improvement?

• How does this apply to online culture?

• How can we give (or receive) criticism without melting down?

It’s worth noting up front that Nathan and Jordan have been in the church AND the ‘creative space’ as musicians/producers for a long time, so they come to this discussion with skin in the game. My favorite quote (and there are some doozies) is from Nate when he says straight away, “A critic is someone who loves something…and so they get into the appreciation of it.” He elaborates that people who make a career by reviewing films, or food, or music are not people who hate movies. They love their thing–these are folks that love film, they love food, and they love music! Therefore, their critique aims to improve the thing…that is to say, love motivates the artist to continue improving the art toward its perfection.

The perfection I’m talking about here doesn’t have to mean “without flaw” but more of an “ideal state.” I believe God has created humanity with an inherent compass for true and false in the most basic sense. Yes, it has been marred and distorted because of sin. But everyone, no matter where (or when) you are from, understands the basic nature of most things, the essence if you will. We instinctively know that a sunset, with all of its golden glory, translates beauty to our soul. We know that sacrificial love is good and that injustice is evil. We have a gut-level knowledge of the moral value of most things, and we want those things to be true to their core; we want them to be true to their nature. Therefore, when we love something, and we approach the thing with criticism, it is because we recognize the true nature, or vision, of the thing, and we want to help move it toward that vision. Our aim is for the perfection of the thing, for it to be its most authentic and excellent form–our aim is for truth.

Nate also made the important point that criticism does not equal cynicism. A cynic approaches art with an inherent distrust or skepticism of the artist and their product. It’s almost as if fear (expressed as distrust or jealousy) has overshadowed the person, and they can’t see the thing clearly for what it is or wants to become…the fear has blinded them from truly seeing the art. Because there is no love in the cynic, any critique that comes from a place of fear will usually be vague, personal, and not helpful.

One could say the essential difference between a good comedic impersonation and an un-funny one is love. I would argue that Darrell Hammond’s 15-year impersonation of Donald Trump on Saturday Night Live was better than Alec Baldwin’s more recent stint precisely because Hammond was able to see and respect Trump’s unique humanity and use those quirks to benefit the performance, while Baldwin (who is very outspoken about his disdain for Trump) reduces his performance to an evil caricature–and kind of kills the character altogether. This example isn’t new to me. Norm Macdonald (God bless him, we miss him!) explains his craft better than I do in this interview. Hammond appreciates the inherent funniness about Trump and can channel that into his performance, while Baldwin’s impersonation falls flat.

The human eye is designed to capture light and focus on images, which we call vision. From birth, we're naturally drawn to gaze at those we love—babies instinctively gaze at their parents and siblings, forming attachment with personal meaning, and those emotional bonds sustain us through life. These connections carry meaning that is both inherent (the word "mother" means female parent) and shaped by experience ("mother" can also represent nurturing or distance). At our core, humans are meant to form meaning and attachment through what we focus on—we love what we gaze at, and we gaze at what we love.

The Church has long recognized our human proclivity for adoration and the power of vision and images in worship, with different traditions viewing icons positively or negatively. I’m not debating the use of icons here, but I’m reflecting on some questions:

Where is my vision?

What is in my ‘line of sight’ on any given day?

If love directs my attention, what/who do I love?

Is the light of truth illuminating my work? My relationships? My obedience to the Lord?

Being a creator means many things, but creating anything will mean putting yourself (and your work) at risk of criticism. In her book, The Artist’s Way, author and creative coach Julia Cameron shares stories from her years of working with blocked artists and laments the pain destructive criticism can cause. Cameron says,

“Perhaps the most damaging form of artistic loss has to do with criticism. The artist within, like the child within, is seldom hurt by truth. I will say again that much true criticism liberates the artist it is aimed at. We are childlike, not childish. Ah-hah! is often the accompanying inner sound when a well-placed, accurate critical arrow makes its mark. The artist thinks, ‘Yes! I can see that! That’s right! I can change that!’”9

What Cameron explains here is more than glib pseudo-therapy talk about the “inner child” (I know, it’s cringe at first blush); she understands that each of us has an inner compass, with the needle constantly spinning in search of the true north of truth, beauty, and goodness. As children, we have more capacity to discern these things clearly (and quickly) and to cut through the nonessentials because we have not yet learned to become cynics.

To be a child is to be in the humble position of constantly learning and receiving. We also have an intense curiosity and attentiveness as kids–just remember what it was like to look and see something in nature (say, a pebble or flower petal), hold it in your tiny hand, and appreciate it for what it is. The pebble is perfect in its pebblyness, as the flower petal is in its beauty. The child sees this and knows the truth–that what God has made is good.

Likewise, when we receive good criticism, it sparks something joyful in us because we agree that the critique will move the art toward its perfection. Childlikeness also rejects the ego: it’s not about me as the artist; it's about the art becoming its most authentic and essential form. MacDonald often communicates this theme of childlikeness (not childishness) in his writing, encouraging his readers to “become like little children” so they can receive the inheritance of God’s kingdom, which is Christ, the very person of Truth (Matt. 18:3).

And this is what I’m driving at–true vision and appreciation for something must be oriented in objective truth.

We need light to have vision and to see clearly, but this light does not come from within ourselves; we cannot generate it, but we can welcome the light and receive it. If light illuminates our vision, and we can see with a childlike heart, we will love the thing/person/idea authentically and for its ultimate perfection/good.

When I had a clear vision of the value of taking care of my body (and its good benefits), I was able to make a real change that moved toward a healthy/ideal state. On the other hand, when the Ghost in The Great Divorce loses his love for the light, his vision narrows, and he becomes fixated on the medium (paint) and is divorced from his orientation to the message (the beauty of creation as it reflects who God is). We can welcome criticism–and learn to give it–when it is rooted in love because we know the one giving the critique also aims for excellence: for an idea, for a work of art, for the Church, for so many good things.

The New Testament author of 1 John opens the letter by declaring, “...God is light; in him there is no darkness at all. If we claim to have fellowship with him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live out the truth. But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.” (1 Jn. 5-7, NIV)

To know Jesus as Lord is to walk in the light of his revelation, to be oriented to him as the Truth, and to have transparent and loving fellowship with one another. We were made to see, by his light. To know, because he is Truth. To love, because he first loved us.

This is a process, of course, of going backward; we must become like children, sons, and daughters of our Father and learn the way. Let’s allow our friend and Teacher, George MacDonald, to send us out with the verses below:

… the very essence of childhood being nearness to the Father

and the outgoing of his creative love … For God is not only the father

of the child, but of the childhood that constitutes him a child, therefore the childness is of the divine nature.

The child may not indeed be capable of looking into the father’s method,

but he can in a measure understand his work, has therefore

free entrance to his study and workshop both,

and is welcome to find out what he can,

with fullest liberty to ask him questions.

It is as if God spoke to each of us according to our need:

My son, my daughter, you are growing old and cunning;

you must grow a child again, with my Son, this blessed birth time.

You are growing old and selfish; you must become a child.

You are growing old and careful; you must become a child.

You are growing old and distrustful; you must become a child.

You are growing old, and petty, and weak, and foolish; you must become a child

—my child; like the baby there, that strong sunrise of faith and hope and love,

lying in his mother’s arms in the stable.

It’s cold again, just like that. The middle schooler in my house refuses to wear a coat when it’s 23* outside, and I am the quintessential mother, nagging and pleading and threatening. I tell myself it’s for his own good, but really, it’s about not wanting the teachers at school drop-off to judge my mothering/negotiation skills. We tell ourselves stories to get by, don’t we?

Somehow, it is December already, and I have everything I’ve always wanted and more than I could have even asked for. And yet, there is a pang in my heart on this cold morning. There is a longing for something…something beyond what I can put words to. Not new, or better, or shiner, but something more real. Something lasting. Something that is so deeply pure, so thoroughly right, that it will never disappoint but always make good. Yesterday, as I walked down the hill in the bitter cold, I witnessed a sky so dense with clouds of deep, rich purples and blues, highlighted from behind with a blazing golden white, that I wanted to scoop it up with a giant spoon and swallow it all. Sometimes, I find myself stunned, and I pause long enough to be hungry for the glory.

My appetite for the eternal has certainly been stirred lately by what I am reading, and more specifically, by a story just completed titled Sir Gibbie. I mentioned this 1879 novel by George MacDonald in my last newsletter and highly recommend it to fellow lovers of MacDonald’s works. Just as a preface note, if you are new to MacDonald and not sure where to start, please reply to this email, and I can recommend a couple of shorter reads (this one tops out at 400+ pages on an e-reader and 500+ pages of a print version with translations included) as an introduction.

I’m almost at a loss for how to describe this book; it might be the only novel that I’ve ever read that made me feel like I was worshipping as I was reading. What does that mean? Well, Sir Gibbie is a historical fiction narrative in the sense that you follow the story of a mute (and eventually orphaned) boy named Gibbie and go along the journey of his life–all of the highs and lows of it–as he is coming of age. But that description is too simple, really. MacDonald does the near impossible by writing a character in wee Gibbie, the boy who lives in the dust of the world and who runs on mountaintops like a deer, who is so pure and good -who epitomizes goodness so thoroughly- and is deeply compelling (and no way cheesy…like I said, impossible), that I get the sense of having spent time with the Lord Jesus himself. The story comes close to an allegory yet resists the definitiveness of the category, and still, as I read of Gibbie’s loss (and brutal persecution, at times) in the valley of his small farming town and great gain as he travels to the heights of Janet Grant’s home on the mountain (and to a conscious knowledge of Christ), I’m all the time gathering food for my own soul, little revelations here and there to savor on later. There is a magic to this book—as G.K. Chesterton alluded, it is a fairy tale disguised as a novel.

Which begs the question for this writer: how did MacDonald write such stories?

In his essay, “The Fantastic Imagination” (1893), MacDonald explores the concept of meaning in fairytales and the centrality of God’s law in storytelling. If I understand him at all, I have grasped this point: for a creative endeavor to be true and beautiful it must have its origin in life, and the products of the life of God will be rightly oriented to receive an inheritance of meaning. The “vitality” of a story is in direct proportion to truth insofar as any aspect that sparkles with mystery or depth or stirs my heart to ask good, deep questions does so because of its orientation with God’s creative and moral order of the world, and to God himself. This doesn’t necessarily mean that every creative endeavor has to be allegorical or that a Christian artist will produce every great work of art. Indeed, some of what is called “Christian art” is the cringe-y-est, worst version of a poor 1-for-1 presentation of image-to-meaning. But it might mean that any truly bad work of art will lack that vitality and be disconnected from God as the wellspring of creativity, beauty, and order.

For storytelling, artmaking, or whatever the creative medium, to be transcendent, the effort must be reaching for something greater and outside of ourselves, and art that can be called ‘good’ in all honesty will have that divine spark of the eternal. MacDonald makes the point by saying, “One difference between God’s work and man’s is, that, while God’s work cannot mean more than he meant, man’s must mean more than he meant.”

Yes, we are limited in our expression because we are human, and all creative expressions of art are naturally confined to our mediums of choice. But perhaps this is why our artmaking tends to focus on one specific element, or angle, to reveal the glory of the whole–we cannot, in our humanness, actually create ex nihilo, but we can hyper-focus on something wonderful, some part of the natural world or our experience in it, and expand the specific bit and allow the iteration to echo of the original inspirational thing. We, ourselves, may even have a strange, out-of-body experience of finding further inspiration or insight from some work of our own hands, for in the process, we were “dealing all the time with things that came from thoughts beyond [our] own.”

The act of creating is, therefore, relationally dependent on the Holy Spirit to do what the Spirit does, to communicate the presence of Christ to us in our everyday life so that we can receive, adore, and participate in further expressions of his glory. The meaning is inherently there because we are receiving a taste from the original cup and, in one fluid turn, translating the flavor to whatever story or song or work of beauty and truth we’ve put our hand to. In our creative pursuits, we are invited to become both childlike, playing at the Father’s knee with delight, and mature sons, ready to receive and steward the divine inheritance faithfully. Like Gibbie tending his sheep on the mountainside with a full vision of the Son of Man in his heart, so much so that the Lord himself was there feeding and guiding the lambs alongside him, MacDonald prophetically exhorts us, “If he be a true man, he will imagine true things…”

The distinction should be made between imagination and fancy, as MacDonald sees it: imagination is the freedom to “call up” new forms within our art that do not go against the order of God’s world (e.g., calling something evil ‘good’ or vice versa) but is harmonious with the original design of things, while fancy is more akin to a superfluous tweak of detail. The artist who dwells within the world that God created, who delights in the divine design, who seeks to know the heart of God and to say the continual “yes” to his invitation, will have access to an endless paintbox of color to notice, enjoy, and recreate new forms and shades. If, however, an artist rejects the fingerprint of God on himself or the world, what kind of essence will be communicated in his media? In other words, we have the creative liberty to play with the material world in artmaking; it is the immaterial, the eternal law of God, that we must first come in agreement with and humbly submit to the proper created order.

Here, MacDonald instructs on the relationship between beauty and law, fancy and imagination:

“Law is the soil in which alone beauty will grow; beauty is the only stuff in which Truth can be clothed; and you may, if you will, call Imagination the tailor that cuts her garments to fit her, and Fancy his journeyman that puts the pieces of them together, or perhaps at most embroiders their button-holes.”

As a crude example, I might imagine a cinematic scene featuring a Great Blue Heron that glides along the glassy surface of a pond, and as he dips his long beak into the water, in one smooth movement, he procures a shining golden key, eventually to be transferred to my story’s protagonist (where it will be used on the heroic journey, of course). If, when the heron gives my protagonist the key, he speaks an audible language that the hero understands, this is a simple product of fancy; on the other hand, if the great bird instructs the hero to reject courage and follow the coward’s path, and this is represented as good instruction, this would break the law of imagination. Or, more succinctly, if the heron approaches a young maiden in my story and she is encouraged to choose her own path to become a prince or princess, each presented as equal in moral value, this would be a rejection of the ordered good and read as absurd. “Obeying laws,” MacDonald says, “the maker works like his creator; not obeying law, he is such a fool as heaps a pile of stones and calls it a church…the laws of the spirit of man must hold, alike in this world and in any world he may invent.” When dealing in truth and imagination, one must become antagonistic to the materialist view to be able to expose the dull pyrite as a counterfeit. For those with eyes to see, there are jewels of meaning to be found everywhere.

“But what if all of this Christian law-talk stifles my creative abilities as an artist?”

Do not fear, dear storymaker, songwriter, beautifier of the world–in the embracing of God’s law and the upward alignment of the heart, a floodgate of treasure will open. It is wee Sir Gibbie who shows us this plainly. After all manner of trial and grief, Gibbie is welcomed into a humble cottage on the side of a high mountain, and there, ‘up Daurside,’ he hears the gospel of the New Testament from Janet Grant, whose own obedience of her Lord Jesus is as earnest and steadfast as the rising morning sun. As she ministers to his hunger, weariness, and wounds, Janet’s simple faith, stripped of any theological scaffoldings, communicates Christ to Gibbie, which results in the boy’s easy and willing deference to the Lord.

“For obedience alone holds wide the door for the entrance of the spirit of wisdom…from the moment when, yet a mere child, [Gibbie] heard there was such a one claiming his obedience, he began to turn to him the hearing ear, the willing heart, the ready hand. The main thing which rendered this devotion more easy and natural to him than to others was, that, more than in most, the love of man had in him prepared the way of the Lord. He who so loved the sons of men was ready to love the Son of Man the moment he heard of him; love makes obedience a joy; and of him who obeys, all heaven is the patrimony–he is fellow-heir with Christ.” (Sir Gibbie, p 249)

The challenges of Gibbie’s life would have hardened many hearts against the search for the origin of that vitality, the wellspring of life, and it may be true that some of us have all but given up the search. Yet, there is something so perfectly oriented in the character of Gibbie that it draws the vision of the heart upward and propels the story forward. This is what good stories do–they transform us. We can’t help but be changed after the reading. And MacDonald's ministration to us aids the process because, through the fairytale quality of Sir Gibbie, he is giving us the gospel from page one.

Gibbie’s all-consuming hope is a simple one: to receive and know the love of the heavenly Father who made him and knows him and to express this love by any humble or extravagant means in return—offered to all, without prejudice, his is an inheritance of God’s all-consuming, all-renewing love; a love which orders all truth, beauty, and goodness of this world and beyond. This kind of treasure is revealed in a lost earring, the pearl of great price, notably found only by going down in the low places of a sewer.

The fairytale story of Sir Gibbie is more than a pauper-to-prince rise in station, because his inheritance is not merely one of legal means, but one found in the wind and rain and lightning of a mighty storm, in the faces of rough Mistress Croale and tender Ginevra, in the poems of Donal’s books, and in the enduring testimonies of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. And in a moment, through the words of this novel, I have the eyes of a child and I can see: all of it, bursting with meaning, standing proudly and representing a truer and eternal Reality, which is offered to each of us and found in the person of Jesus Christ—who is before all things, and in whom all things hold together.

There was a death in our community a few days ago. Tragedy pays no attention to the calendar. I didn’t know him, but I know his son, his very young son. And my heart is grieving for this boy, who will not have an earthly father for the rest of his days. Who will look this child in the eyes and tell him there is a hope that will never disappoint? Who will tell him of a perfect Father, who put on flesh and became a boy, who felt joy and sorrow, just like him?

Still, there is joy to be found–new calves dot the hill behind our house, fuzzy black younglings, and I can hear their baying throughout the day. I love to see the babies chase their slowly meandering mothers, their short little legs trying to keep up as she searches for a peaceful place to graze. More treasures of joy to receive through nourishing meals with new friends and old, sparkling lights dotting the old town square, candy-cane-colorful wrapping paper (and ribbons aplenty), and children singing their hearts out to their glowing parents. A rich inheritance has been supplied for us, if we have the courage to pursue it as boldly as a boy chasing a storm.

After all, it was Dickins himself who mused,

“…for it is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas, when its mighty Founder was a child himself.”

If I don’t see you before then, Merry Christmas to you and yours!

Until next time,

SBL

It’s good to be here, on this Halloween and the last day of October, knowing that I’m right where I’m meant to be. That feeling is a rare one, I’ll admit. But today, with my fingers on the keys, listening to the leaves outside my window brush along the pavement, I know I am doing the thing I was made to do. And later, I will go to the north part of the county to vote, and when the boys get home from school, we will likely have roast chicken for dinner and then perhaps go trick-or-treating up the road (if the rain holds out). It’s all right, and all good, for today, and I’m resting in the handful of hours between one sleep and the next. 

We are word people, here on this silly orange app. I am such a word person that in preparation for a VIM (very important meeting) earlier this week, I wrote myself notes, bullet point style. Silver ink from a Gelly Roll pen on black lined paper. I do this often; I need to write down (or type out) the main things that I want to remember, the things I need to know, so I can read them and receive them back into my brain, where they settle into something like understanding. For whatever reason, the ideas in their originating form don’t hit quite the same–but some magic happens in the expression that transforms them into what we call WORDS, and then my brain is like, oh yeah, I get it. So I write the words on a sticky note, and I glance at the words during the VIM, and my train of thought stays on the proverbial track, and good things are communicated that could even be called true things. 

And this is why I must keep coming to the page. The place where my inner life takes the form of language and then (only then) makes some kind of sense. I’m grateful to have a cozy internet home here on Substack to house these thoughts (feelings, ideas, etc. etc.) and it’s still a thrill to stumble into new rooms where I can read other (your?) thoughts as well. Apologies if this newsletter is a bit disjointed, but I’ll do my best to pull it together. Pull up a chair, put your feet on the coffee table, and let’s get into it. 

Here is an assortment of things I’ve read/listened to/watched lately and a few thoughts:

1. READ - Why I Celebrate Halloween (Nathan Finochio) - loved this take by our friend and brother-in-the-Lord (please tell me you read that in your best Southern Baptist accent) about Christian colonization of pagan holidays. I’ve always loved anything involving costumes, so I’m an easy sell. 

2. READ -  The Mythmakers: The Remarkable Fellowship of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien (A Graphic Novel) - What a fun (and beautiful) read over a long fall-ish weekend. It was my first graphic novel, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the reading experience! And, as a bonus, it provided some common ground for my twelve-year-old (graphic novel-loving) son and I to bond over. Joel mentioned the book in his recent roundup, along with a couple of related biographies I’ll have to check out. The Wade Center at Wheaton also hosted Hendrix on Monday night for an excellent talk on his journey as an artist and unlikely author–you can watch the recording here. 

3. READ - Sir Gibbie - This 1879 novel by George MacDonald is my first reading of one of his ‘Scottish novels.’ It presents a bit of a challenge because some of the dialogue is in the difficult Doric dialect of Scottish. It's likely not the best way to get through it, but I find myself quickly skimming over the sentences to get a sense of what is being talked about and then going back and trying to read it out loud. Something about the pace of saying it relatively fast and reading phonetically helps me understand about 90% of what is being said. [Note: I’ve linked a version of the book above that includes the translation of the Doric dialogue.] The story, however…the story moves along as if a Father is telling it to his children at their bedside. But that’s not to say this is a children’s story (whatever that means to you–to me, not a story that would appeal to my three sons at first blush). Some parts are excruciatingly sad and heartbreaking to read, while others will bring a laugh to your lips. The story follows the life of Gibbie, a mute boy orphaned by the time he is about 7 or 8, and the many people and circumstances he must endure (and yes, overcome–but Sir Gibbie is not the typical survival story…more of a Christ-like being in the midst of this stormy life). The Fatherly narrator's voice will occasionally break through the narrative to comment on a particular character’s trajectory or give a bit of moral encouragement, and I find these remarks provide a nice moment of reflection, as well as a glimpse into MacDonald’s thinking. However, some readers may not appreciate that particular aspect. 

4. LISTEN - To this 2019 podcast interview with Greg McKeown, “How to Master Essentialism.” The principles that Greg and Tim discuss in this episode are timeless (and timely for me personally) on getting to the essential priorities of life. I’m going through a major shift of life-season and want to be responsible with my decisions about my time, energy, and resources. Greg guides Tim through a series of poignant questions about a project he is procrastinating, so it’s kind of like listening in on a vocation-based therapy session. His advice challenges me to review elements of my life through the BIG LENSE: will this matter in 10 years? 30 years? 100 years? Does this project (or item or relationship) help guide me in the direction I want to go, or lead me astray? If I say ‘yes’ to this, what am I saying ‘no’ to instead? 

5. WATCH - Howards End (BBC/Starz miniseries) - How does the scripture go…I don’t do what I want to do, and I do what I don’t want to, or something? I really should have followed my own golden rule and read E.M. Forester’s 1910 novel, considered by experts (or, Wikipedia) to be his masterpiece, before watching the show. With that said, I wonder what those of you who have both read the book and watched this four-part series about a family and their house, called ‘Howard’s End,’ would say about the screen adaptation. Does the overall tone ring true? Is the pacing too weird? I found the first three episodes interesting, even beautiful at times, although with some odd characterization of a few roles (especially Helen…is she really that flighty and annoying in the book?). But the fourth (and final, although I didn’t realize it was the last one until the entire thing was over!) episode had such strange pacing from the other three, rather slowly building, storylines that I was kind of whiplashed by the end. No spoilers here, but please shoot me an email if you can tell me with confidence that the book is better and I read the room on this show. Matthew Macfayden (of Pride & Prejudice and Succession fame) was perfection, of course. 

6. WATCH - We Live in Time (dir John Crowley) - Michael and I saw this last night and couldn’t stop talking about it on the way home afterwards. It’s about falling in love, the nature of time, and all of the beauty and pain that we have the capacity to experience as humans. The storytelling is so well done…heartbreaking, hilarious, and poignant, the film renewed in me the big picture perspective to cherish the one life I have been given, and especially the ones I love. (Fair warning, this film is for mature audiences.)

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What is it about this time of year that makes me take inventory? Lately, I’m in a serious mode of paring down, taking stock, and reassessing just about everything in my life. Looking at habits and behaviors, items of clothing and the contents of cabinets, at outward relationships and inner mental/emotional identities, and plainly asking myself…does this still belong? 

Maybe it’s the inevitable response to being a mid-life, forty-something wife and mother who has limited time/energy/resources. Most of my days are structured for optimal use: the lunches are packed the night before, the school uniforms are washed and ready for Monday morning, the meal plan is posted on the side of the fridge. Google calendar alerts remind me of birthdays and Apple reminders alert me to take my vitamins. It’s a season that requires strategy and planning for the benefit of all who surround me. And there, in the middle of the crazy, I’m finding an unexpected well of deeper creativity and desire than I’ve known in a very long while. 

The act of culling clears the way, but a willingness to submit to the process is a prerequisite. Twentieth-century abstract painter Piet Mondrian said, “The position of the artist is humble. He is essentially a channel.” Earlier, and more essentially, the Eighteenth-century poet William Blake put it this way, “I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.” They both know something that I am only barely beginning to see through the clutter. To reflect the beauty and truth of the Logos, one must become a willing participant in his ways of expression. And his ways are exact.   

At the risk of sounding trite, I’ve been mulling over the image of a fruit tree (let’s say a pear tree, because I love a good pear and it’s very autumnal, don’t you think?) After the tree has borne its crop for the year, it must be pruned; there’s no getting around that plain fact. Certain branches must be cut back to allow for the best (and right kind of) growth. But guess what the pruning prepares the tree to produce? Glorious, juicy, ripe golden pears! The tree that is most lovingly attended by the gardener, even with the sharp and purposeful blade, is the one that will bring him the most glory in its proper season. 

Oh, let me be the willing tree that bends easily at the gardener’s hand! Let me trust his pruning of things (that have been good and useful in their time) that I don’t want to let go of but must be set aside to make way for the better things to come. Help me not to be the tree that looks longingly at the branches being tossed onto the fire, but turns ever upward toward the bright and approving sun. 

The rain has settled over our little holler, so I decided to whip up a batch of pumpkin muffins. Is that possibly the coziest sentence I’ve ever typed? Well, just to complete the scene, I also sliced the tip of my right pointer finger as I was trying to get the pumpkin out of the can and it bled like it was starring in a slasher flick, so Happy Halloween! Anyways, here’s the recipe that ChatGPT gave me after a couple of prompts (nothing healthy about these, but they smell heavenly!) 

Easy Pumpkin Muffins

Ingredients:

- 1 3/4 cups all-purpose flour

- 1 cup granulated sugar

- 1/2 cup brown sugar, packed

- 1 teaspoon baking soda

- 1/2 teaspoon salt

- 2 teaspoons pumpkin pie spice (or 1 tsp cinnamon, 1/2 tsp nutmeg, 1/2 tsp ginger)

- 2 large eggs

- 1 cup canned pumpkin puree

- 1/2 cup vegetable oil (or melted butter)

- 1/4 cup milk (or almond milk)

- 1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Optional add-ins: 1/2 cup chocolate chips, chopped nuts, or raisins (or spooky sprinkles!) 

Instructions:

1. Preheat your oven to 375°F (190°C). Line a muffin tin with paper liners or spray with non-stick cooking spray.

2. In a large bowl, whisk together flour, granulated sugar, brown sugar, baking soda, salt, and pumpkin pie spice.

3. In a separate bowl, whisk the eggs, pumpkin puree, oil, milk, and vanilla extract until smooth.

4. Pour the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients and stir until just combined. Avoid over-mixing to keep the muffins tender.

5. Fold in any optional add-ins if desired.

6. Divide the batter evenly among the muffin cups, filling each about 2/3 full.

7. Bake for 18-20 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean.

8. Let the muffins cool in the pan for a few minutes before transferring to a wire rack to cool completely.

I hope you are able to spend today with someone you love, costumes or not, and can take a moment to meditate on the brevity of this life. It’s precious, fleeting, and oh so beautiful. And we are lucky to be in it, so let’s live it, all the way till the end.

Until next time,

SBL

Writing is a net good for me—to settle down life’s swirling activity enough to get the words out is a worthy endeavor. Yet, it’s a real struggle, not for want of desire or effort, but for time. My brain is constantly having to make the judgment call: if I do THIS, I will have to delay THAT. I thought I was fairly good at managing my time, but maybe not so much. Have I tried blocking out time? Yes. Have I cut out all but the essentials? Well, sort of.

I want to flex certain creative muscles but other demands are demanding NOW. Or maybe it’s just that I want to accomplish/experience too much in too little time (let the reader understand: I am impatient. Lord help me.) The pains of the writer’s life is not always what you’d assume…sometimes just getting to the blank page is a battle.

[Bear with me…I’m feeling very honest today.]  

I tried a new thing last night. Well, not entirely new, but unfamiliar, uncomfortable, and FUN. I’ve had a specific image in my mind for about a week that keeps asking to get out of my mind (or whatever bay holds the creative ideas as they patiently wait until we are ready to launch them into the great wild and blue ocean), and I took the few minutes to type it out. It was hard. Writers each have their own process, but we tend to fall into two camps: the brain dump and edit later camp (reasonable) and the meticulous “painter” camp, editing as we go, slow and painful, little brush strokes at a time until we feel satisfied or give up or keel over (do not recommend). Can you guess what my natural inclination is? I wrote as fast as I could and got the scene down in some form, and it was good. Not the writing, mind you, but the experience of flexing the new muscle of writing fiction. 

[More honesty, brace yourselves.] 

I can’t stand the easy acceptance of mediocrity in the arts. You can call me a snob, and that’s fine (won’t be the first time), but that’s not how I see it. I once had a debate with a friend over our differing tastes in fiction. She insisted that the mass market fast-paced thriller novels that she picked up at airport bookstands was all she needed to unwind (with a glass of red, of course) at the end of a stressful day and she had no desire to read anything more “difficult.” As she made her case, I laughed and shook my head, “The last time I tried to read one of those, I literally chucked the book in the trash!”

I love my friend but I don’t understand why a person would waste time (and money) on fiction that makes me feel dumber after reading…but that isn’t how she experiences it. What I view as disappointing, mediocre storytelling is, for others, a relaxing experience. We each have our tastes and preferences, of course, but inwardly I am asking my friend…don’t you want more from your reading? Is temporary entertainment the only thing gained from the time you’ve invested? Why be satisfied with a pairing of Cheetos with your wine when a thousand day aged gouda is right there, on the table, for the taking? I’m trying not to be judgy about it, I promise. 

The creative arts have lately been associated with a kind of escapism, a way to numb or medicate the pain or simply “check out” from real life. And maybe this is where “the arts” in my mind begin to morph into a clinical and cold idea of “entertainment.” Like so many other girlies of my generation, I find myself “prescribing” entertainment when I feel tired or sad or whatever…who hasn’t re-watched Pride and Prejudice to soothe an anxious soul? Or binged Love Is Blind to kind of switch-off for the day? (Oh the irony of “unplugging” from our real life via a streaming app!)

I’m not sure why these ideas feel opposing, but I’m trying to untangle the thread of artistic beauty-as-balm versus a sort of creatively packaged lidocaine. Maybe it’s about the origin or source: one seems to be a healthy outpouring of a creative soul and the other is a product to sell or means to an outcome. The former wakes something up in us; the latter puts us to sleep. 

[I finally got a full night’s sleep last night…can you tell?] 

Similarly, I despise a certain kind of moral and spiritual temperance that says, “Let's not lose our heads over this God-stuff…” as if we must hedge our bets in case the house of cards comes falling down. What kind of faith is that? Who wants to live as if our eternal hope, that spiritual life-force that is Truth personified, might actually turn out to be a laughing phantom? 

In his Scottish novel, Sir Gibbie, George MacDonald writes, 

“Let him who understands, understand better; let him not say the good is less than perfect, or excuse his supineness and spiritual sloth by saying to himself that a man can go too far in his search after the divine, can sell too much of what he has to buy the field of the treasure. Either there is no Christ of God, or my all is his.” 

I grew up in a home that recognized God as Creator and Father and Judge, but it wasn’t until the person of Jesus Christ came to me in the darkness of my late twenties and extended an invitation–for me to come to know Him, and to become someone renewed, open, submissive, willing to hope–that the spine of my world was cracked and realigned for true healing to occur. Before that experience, I would have called myself Christian, but it was a guarded kind of religion. Now, I knew Him to be true, and uncompromising, and more authentically good than anyone I had ever known. That season of meeting and knowing Him in that way marked me forever; everything else in my experience was now measured against this new standard.

If you have encountered Christ as I have, you know that the plane of our very existence–not merely our individual histories and experiences–but all of the whole and actual universe rests on the foundation of who he is. His reality is Reality. This is what the writer of Colossians was getting at when he wrote, “He is before all things, and in him all things hold together” (1:17). The grand scope and minute detail of my life (and yours, astonishingly) derive from His being and doing. But we Christians sometimes act (and especially create) as if we were apologizing for something that might not be true. Is it true? Does our art reveal what is hidden in our hearts? Do we need to repent of unbelief? 

My faith journey has long been interwoven with my experience as a creative, as yours is too, I bet. In every season of my life I have gone to the page to work out my emotions and understanding with words (maybe you do this with a guitar or paintbrush). We wrestle with the meager tools we have been given. We offer up a sacrifice of thanksgiving, in forms of color and language and song. This is our spiritual act of worship: to give, with our creativity and energy and skill, that life that was first given to us in Christ. 

What if we went onward down this line and understood the creative arts as a translational gift; a means of coming home to Reality?

What if our unique gifts of creativity–music, dance, theater, sculpture, architecture, storytelling–became doorways for us to invite others to come home, too? What does it look like to reject a shallow, two-dimensional spirituality (shrugging off that comforting cloak of skepticism) and to sniff out the poisoned pill of an easy, euthanizing entertainment? What if, instead, we embrace a process of spiritual formation through the creative mode that leads to healing, growing and maturing, contributing to our communities, and true enjoyment? Perhaps the arts, in the variety of expressions, are available to be a kind of ministering to the weary, the hopeless, or the lost (be that ourselves, at times, and our neighbors, often.) A cure for the existential soul.

If we believe what we say we believe, surely our art will call deep unto deep—Lord, make it so! In the joy of our creativity and in our everyday wrestling of the calendar, it comes back to this simple truth (as MacDonald prays): Either there is no Christ of God, or my all is his.

Until next time,

SBL

Here are several practical ways to donate and help. As you do, say a prayer for those who are working on the ground and those receiving the help - we are all brought low in the wake of a storm of this scale. Let’s hold on to the promise in scripture that God gives grace to the humble and meets us when we cry out in our time of need.

Our faith is made real in moments like these.

• Excellent list of resources in Southern Living, including Operation Airdrop and Mercy Chefs.

• Appalachian Voices has a comprehensive roundup of resources, including where to call to report missing persons, shelters, drop-off locations, and non-profits organized by states.

• If you’d like to directly provide diapers, wipes, and formula to families in need in the Asheville (and surrounding counties) area, please give to this list. Area pregnancy centers are working together to move items where they are needed.

Thank you!

When you think of the archetypical artist, what comes to mind? I envision a man in his late 50s or early 60s, with longish hair around his ears and neck, possibly a dark mustache or goatee. He would be dressed in a workman’s jacket smeared with various shades of blues, greys, and whites, slouching low in an old chair (the kind you would find at your grandma's house or an antique shop), holding a cigarette lightly between his fingers, which are dotted with large metallic rings, and gazing off into the distance with a look of anxious despair on his face. 

What about the archetypical athlete? He is young, in the prime of his physical life. His body is sleek and strong, his skin is a light bronze, and his clothing is purely functional. His eyes are fixed on one thing and one thing only: to win. He lives at the gym, the track, the juice bar. He is an Olympic runner, and he is the picture of ambition, vitality, and speed. 

The artist and the athlete are brothers, but they are not the same. 

The artist and the athlete rely on a set of particular technical skills and repetitive practice to improve in their respective fields. They pursue their vocational callings with intense passion in ways that sometimes must feel all-consuming–eating and sleeping whatever current project or goal they have before them. Both vocations demand great dedication and perseverance. Both the artist and the athlete have the potential to impact their generation, as well as future ones, with their contributions to society and culture. 

While the athlete's skill relies primarily on the physical expression of strength, speed, agility and endurance (mainly as expressed in the critical moment of competition), the artist's skill is inherently intellectual and creative. The artist may use a variety of modes for expressing the artistic vision, be it through music, painting, sculpture, language, or design, but the physicality of his work is unto a greater purpose. He doesn’t spend hours and days and weeks and months, and sometime years, working on a piece just for the sheer aesthetics; he is an artist. Therefore he communicates meaning. The artist seeks to express something deeper—some idea or insight, or something emotional, or even spiritual. 

It is probably true that the greats–in both the arts and athletics–accomplish what they do because of a disciplined regime of showing up, doing the work, getting better, and not giving up. But honestly, I don’t often relate to the athlete. I avoid waking up early, for one thing. I’m not motivated to abide by the strict rules of a game. I hate the taste of Gatorade, and I’m not great at keeping up an exercise routine for very long. I can get a little competitive when I’m watching my kid’s soccer games, but that’s just a mama’s pride, right? 

I am much more at home in an artist’s world, fueled by my passions and the creative cycle, where work happens (maybe, hopefully) as inspiration hits. I’m not endorsing this way of working; I’m merely saying this is what comes naturally for the creative soul. While the athlete keeps a strict training schedule, receives metric-driven coaching, and is ever pushing toward his goal, the artist, on the other hand, is often creating alone (at all hours of the day or night), pouring his heart and soul into his work, and is perhaps sensitive to critique. It doesn’t help that he is often on edge from too much coffee or…other stimulants. 

The athlete has an essential place in culture, demonstrating the amazing capabilities the human body contains and inspiring his fellow man to achieve greater things. This is the virtue of athletics, so to speak, the athlete’s purpose in embodying physical greatness. 

Even so, the artist must not be confused or conformed to become the athlete. In the most basic terms, the athlete expresses through action and performance in competition, while an artist expresses through creation. Success for the competitive swimmer or baseball player is objectively measured by scores, times, or outcomes. Conversely, the artist lives and breathes the subjective experience through song, poem, or the like, which extends the open invitation of interpretation.

The means of the artmaker matter, of course–how an artist expresses their message through the beauty and quality and skill of their art is wonderfully important. But perfection in aesthetics that serves a shallow and disorientating goal of communicating evil as good, or worse, nothing at all, will ultimately create a society of starved and numbed people. Performance without transcendental meaning completely strips the artist of their God-breathed potency.

Artmaking must reclaim its prophetic purpose; for the Christian, this is a good thing. 

I believe we, as the catholic/universal Christian Church, are in a pivotal moment when it comes to the arts. The West has learned the formulas, we’ve commodified the creatives, and we are suffering from a lack of meaning. We are good at growing creative brands but terrible at spiritual formation for the artist. We know how to turn out the crowds, but the people go home hungry. What if the artists bypassed the byproducts and, instead, began to earnestly eat and drink of Christ? To develop a highly discerning palette for what is actually beautiful, true, and good? 

What if we learned to spread an everlasting feast? 

Until next time,

SBL

“See every little flower straighten its stalk, lift up its neck, and with outstretched head stand expectant: something more than the sun, greater than the light, is coming, is coming–none the less surely coming that it is long upon the road!”

–George MacDonald, Lilith, Ch. XLV ‘The Journey Home’ 

It’s a Tuesday morning in early September. 8:02 am, about 58 degrees, and the leaves are finally turning. Squirrel thrash around in the trees, making noise and plans bigger than they warrant. The grass sparkles with dew, as fine as silk. Various plants on my porch hang on awhile longer, but they bear the marks of boy violence–branches reaching out for more sunlight, broken off too short, probably from too-close bike rides and little wandering fingers.

A discordant choir makes unceasing birdsong, and I watch as the gray barn kitty parades past the kitchen door with a chipmunk hanging limp in her jaw, its soft red fur soaking up the morning light. The dogs are insanely jealous.

It’s funny how my mind will tune out the sounds of morning traffic from the road when I am thinking on other things; momentarily, I enjoy a kind of country silence (not quite, of course, because of a cacophony of surrounding life), only for it to come droning back like I’m being pulled out of a dream. At times, I long to be somewhere even more remote–no sounds of trucks at all. Somewhere beyond what I know to be quiet and still and yet alive. Only the wind and rustle of tree branches, or waves, or whispering grasses, or nothing but the morning sun on my face and peace enveloping all. 

As spooky season approaches, I find myself drawn once again to the captivating allure of Victorian-gothic tales. It was around this time last year that I delved into Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray for the first time, and shared my brief yet mixed review. In the previous October, I was introduced to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, a reading experience that truly changed my life. 

Nineteenth- and early Twentieth-century classic fiction is easily my favorite kind of reading. There is something about this era of fiction that awakens my mind and soul like nothing else, and this is especially true as the world around me slowly decays into a warm sunset. When autumn arrives in my area of the South, I tend to reach for stories that take me to another world and sort of bend the veil to reveal another realm. When we, as supplicant readers, are drawn into a fantastical and fictional world found only in the pages of a book, we participate in a kind of travel via the road of imagination. You and I take a real risk when beginning a new story. We open the pages as we open a door and face whatever creature, adventure, or moral dilemma may come our way. As Bilbo warned his young protege, 

“It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”

The same can be said of a George MacDonald fantasy; the world of his making is entirely more real, more fixed in reality than our own. I first encountered MacDonald, as many people do, in C.S. Lewis's The Great Divorce, where he introduces MacDonald in the narrative as “a very tall man, almost a giant, with a flowing beard…here was an enthroned and shining god, whose ageless spirit weighed upon mine like a burden of solid gold.”

MacDonald’s influence on Lewis (and a roster of other literary figures of the 19th and 20th centuries) was such that Lewis depicted him as a giant of a man. Throughout his life, MacDonald enjoyed a long career of authoring novels, fantasy, poetry, sermons, literary criticism, and other writings, but it was his fantasy and fairy tales that established his giant-like, legendary status. If you are not yet familiar with MacDonald’s works, I strongly encourage you to begin with The Princess and the Goblin (and its sequel, The Princess and Curdie). 

This autumn, I am reading MacDonald’s Lilith, first published in 1895. Lilith was the last fantasy work he penned, written late in life, and widely considered one of his best (if not the best of the genre). The story opens with Mr. Vane, a bachelor and recent graduate, who lives in an old Manor house inherited from his deceased parents. Mr. Vane spends most of his time in the house’s large library, perusing books on science and philosophy, until one evening when he catches a glimpse of what might be a ghostly visitor to his library. The apparition makes another appearance in the library, this time as a slender old man in a long, dark coat, ‘shiny as from much wear,’ and this second visit is enough to spark Mr. Vane’s curiosity. He asks the servants of the house if they know of any haunting history and learns of a legend concerning Mr. Raven, the long-time librarian to his ancestors.

Upon a third shadowy visit from this Mr. Raven, Mr. Vane follows the old man out of the library and down a series of hallways, up a flight of narrowing stairs, and finally into an unknown room hidden high in the rafters of the house. Mr. Raven is nowhere to be seen, but as Mr. Vane’s eyes adjust to the dim light, he notices a particularly tall, antique mirror made of an ebony frame and dusty glass. Or was it a frame protecting a picture of ‘a wild country’ of hills, moorland, and mountains? Stepping closer to inspect the image, Mr. Vane finds himself falling inside the frame of the mirror and translated to another world. He immediately encounters Mr. Raven as his raven-self, talking bird and man alike, and guide to the wise. But, alas, our protagonist is not wise. Mr. Vane must learn to heed the voice of wisdom over the days and nights to come of his perilous Dantean journey. 

Lilith is a classic example of the mind-bending, fever-dream genre of fantasy literature, the likes of which inspired MacDonald’s friend and colleague Lewis Carrol to write the Alice in Wonderland stories (or, Through the Looking Glass) and, later, Lewis and Tolkien’s epic fantasy world-building. The story follows Mr. Vane’s expedition through a mirror-portal to the other realm, where he travels through a world of craggy mountains, dark valleys and caves, desolate deserts, and hot-water rivers, guided by a series of personified moons. 

While traveling, Mr. Vane encounters a full roster of characters–Mr. Raven, also known as Adam (the first man) and his angelic wife, Eve, also known as Mother; all manner of vile beasts and creatures that rise in the night; still clothed skeletal ghosts of persons awaiting their eternal fate; a large group of Little Ones, or wild and sweet children of various ages, who live in the forest and are cared for by Lona, the eldest and maternal leader of the youth clan; a village of dumb ogres, who we learn is the result of rebellious children “growing” into ignorance and brutality; Mara, a shrouded woman who lives in the House of Bitterness; and a city of childless Mothers and Fathers, who live in fearful servitude to the story’s villain–Lilith, the first wife of Adam, and vampire queen of the damned. Oh, and as if those weren’t enough to keep straight, there are two leopards, one with dark spots and the other a gleaming white, fighting viciously for dominance throughout the odyssey.

While the large cast of characters and ever-changing scenery are challenging to follow at times, the difficulty only adds to the disorientating nature of this otherworldly realm. MacDonald expertly weaves in themes that will have you pondering their meaning days after reading: themes of spiritual sleeping and awakening, old man vs. new man (Adam vs. Christ, Lilith vs. Eve), dying to Self/death unto Life, revelation and renewal, the Spirit of God as a person and as a regenerating force, childlike faith vs. brutal materialism/skepticism, maternal/sacrificial love vs. pride of life, the coming eschatological era and final reign of God, and much more. MacDonald infuses a lifetime of spiritual revelation in this complex and captivating allegorical tale, and we get the sense that some of Mr. Vane’s trials and triumphs were birthed by MacDonald’s own experience with the mysterious ways of God. Ultimately, it is not only MacDonald’s deep understanding of the high cost of salvation but his ever-expansive eschatological vision of God’s coming and ultimate reign that drives the narrative to its gut-wrenching climax (no spoilers here, promise!)

It’s not a perfect book, by any means, but it is profoundly unsettling in the very best way. MacDonald’s magic is found in the images and feelings he creates and how they capture our imagination precisely because they reference something deeper, truer, and more eternal than what we typically encounter when we step through the glass and into a new story. If you are new to fantasy, it’s okay to feel a moment of hesitation–do I dare take the risk of going through to the other side? Likewise, when Mr. Vane questions his own enterprise, Mr. Raven answers, 

“I tell you, there are more worlds, and more doors to them, than you will think of in many years!...But if you understood any world besides your own, you would understand your own much better.”

Have you read Lilith? What did you think? Do you have any favorite fantasy or fairy tales to recommend?

Until next time,

SBL

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